


Until I Met You

by HooksLovelySwan (ChainOfPaperClips)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChainOfPaperClips/pseuds/HooksLovelySwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern World AU. College Freshman Emma Nolan has no love for poetry, and not even her hot Lit. professor, Killian Jones, can make her understand it. Yet as she receives a series of mysterious notes and presents, understanding unfolds in her heart, & she falls in love with the stranger sending them. But to whom does her heart belong? And will her romance end in happiness or sorrow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was originally supposed to be a one-shot Valentine's fic, using the flash scene format, as I already have a modern world AU fic featuring Killian as a professor in mind for the future. But this fic has taken on a life of its own, and there is no way I can do it justice in a one-shot, so I have decided to make it multi-chapter. And forewarning: the Valentine's part of this fic to come is only a part of the larger story, so it's more of a quasi-Valentine's fic than anything else. An actual real Valentine's one-shot is already well in the works to make it up to y'all, and will be entitled "Set on Fire."
> 
> Hope you like this fic!

Emma Nolan was glad the holidays were over. As much as she loved her mother, it was a relief to be back at college. Holidays just weren't the same since her father had died two years ago. Instead of the warmth and cheer she used to feel, all she felt was an emptiness. And though her mother tried her very hardest to pull out all the stops, to make holidays fun and memorable again, Emma knew that her mother felt the emptiness, too. It wasn't fair. Her father shouldn't have passed away so young. Shouldn't have contracted a particularly aggressive form of brain cancer that appeared very suddenly and ripped him out of their lives within a matter of four months.

College took her away from all that. Took her away from the small town of Storybrooke, Maine, where people still treated her with kid gloves and eyed her with pity all this time later. Took her away from the whispers and the gossip and the cruel remarks about how much she and her mother were grieving, or when, or how long, and why didn't they just get over it and move on already (Were they going to wallow in it forever)? Took her away from people analyzing every action she took, every word she spoke, every mood she was in: If she was happy, she wasn't processing her grief in a healthy manner; if she was mad or upset, she was morbidly dwelling on her father's death, and it wasn't like that could bring him back, you know; if she laughed, she was putting on a front, the brave girl; if she didn't go out with friends on the weekend, she was letting her mother cling to her in an unhealthy manner, and Mary-Margaret really just needed to let the poor girl have her own life; if she did go out and have fun, she was insensitive and neglecting her poor mother...and on and on it went, ad nauseum.

Emma just couldn't win as a resident of Storybrooke anymore.

But at college, no one judged her or placed any expectations on her. It was a new life, and the spring semester of her freshman year a fresh start. She was eager to begin.

Which was why she had arrived earlier than any other student in the class. And taken a seat in the front row, near the door.

"Hey!" a male voice greeted her. "Long time, no see!" Emma looked up to see Victor Whale slide into a seat next to hers, his trademark sarcastic smirk plastered across his face. "I didn't know you were in this class," he continued. "How was your winter break?" He sipped at the enormous cup of coffee in his hands and waited for an answer.

"Pure hell," she sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough."

That was why Emma liked Victor so much. He didn't push. He just let her be. Perhaps that was why they had become instant friends at freshmen orientation. He respected her walls and boundaries. Often to a fault.

"So, what do you know about this professor?" Victor asked as more students trickled into the room. "Good? Bad? Jumps on furniture? Draws boxes around random words while he writes? Gorges himself on Spam and Yoo-hoo every day?"

"I have no idea," she said truthfully. "I don't even remember his name."

Victor bent over and unzipped his backpack. He rummaged around for a moment and produced a folded up piece of paper with a triumphant grin. "Ta-da!" He opened the paper and scanned it. "Professor Killian Jones," he read.

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Maybe he's new."

"Or maybe we just don't know anybody who has had him," she pointed out, practical as ever. "Even Jefferson can't take every course in the school. He's mad to try."

Victor's eyes widened. He clutched at his chest for a moment, then cupped his ear with one hand. "Hark! What's that? Is Emma Nolan implying that we need more friends? And here I thought I was the one cheerleading for us to expand our social circle!" He made a face. "More like a triangle, really."

She snorted. "Funny. And no, it's not that."

"C'mon, Emma," he rolled his eyes. "Don't you get tired of Jefferson being the third wheel to our gorgeous coupling?" he teased, waggling his eyebrows. "Can't a fella get any time alone to romance you?"

"In your dreams," she laughed. "I'm too smart for that. You couldn't settle down with one woman if your life depended on it."

"I resent that," he frowned. "I committed to Aurora for three whole weeks."

"Yeah, and the fact that that's your best track record speaks volumes," she declared with a shake of her head. "Besides, there's Neal. He's part of our group."

Victor's expression became stormy. "That bastard doesn't count, and he never will."

"Victor-"

"He's a loser. Not nearly good enough for you."

"Yeah? Look who's talking, with some of the girls you bring back to the apartment."

"Ah," he said, raising his eyebrows. "But as you said, I don't commit to them for very long. Doesn't matter much what anyone thinks, then, does it?"

"Whatever," she snorted. "The point is that you have absolutely no room to make judgments about who I date."

Victor opened his mouth to reply, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye, and he turned away, his mouth snapping shut. Emma followed his gaze. A slim girl walked into the room, clutching her books to her chest. Her long brown hair was fastened into two ponytails on either side of her neck, streaks of cherry red dye running through her locks. Her make-up was heavier than Emma's tastes ran, with fire-engine red lipstick and lots of black eyeliner, but she managed to pull it off without looking trampy. A feat not to be sneezed at from the short white shorts and a very form-fitting crimson t-shirt she wore.

"Roll your tongue back inside your mouth," Emma smirked. "Class is getting ready to start. You can stalk your latest conquest later, tiger."

As she said this, a hush settled over the classroom, making her words sound louder than they really were. Embarrassed, she turned toward the front of the class again, her head ducked. Amazed at the stillness, Emma wondered if this was one of those moments that you could actually hear a pin drop. She looked up from her desk, curiosity overcoming her embarrassment, and understood the utter silence immediately. Her professor had arrived. Her gorgeous  _young_  professor.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and a chest muscular enough that even the jacket of his two piece charcoal suit couldn't disguise it. The jacket hung open, unbuttoned, revealing a plain white dress shirt, the presence of a tie nowhere to be seen.

 _Charcoal?_  Emma thought hazily as Professor Jones opened his briefcase. Why did it have to be charcoal? She'd always been a sucker for that shade on a man.

Removing a sheaf of papers, Professor Jones closed the briefcase and scanned the room, his manner as casual and irreverent as his tousled black hair and days-old growth of facial stubble. Emma ducked her head again, certain that her face must be flushed from all the dirty thoughts that flashed through her head. Was that actually the way his hair would look after a round or five of passionate sex?

 _Stop it, Emma,_  she chastised herself.  _He's your professor. You have to deal with him for a whole semester. Hard to do that if you can't even look him in the eye._

"Great," Victor muttered sourly, taking in the way every pair of female eyes (and quite a few more pairs of male ones than Emma would have suspected) riveted on the professor, "there goes my chance with Red, over there."

Emma ignored him, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans. He was just a man. A good-looking man to be sure, but not a foreign species. Nothing to be intimidated about. She just needed time to get used to this, to him. To those damnably striking good looks.

"Good morning," her instructor spoke, his Irish accent echoing through the still room as he looked at his watch. He shut the classroom door with a soft click. "I am Professor Killian Jones. I'll be your instructor in this course for the duration of the semester. You won't need to take notes today, I'm not that cruel," he smiled. "We'll just go over the syllabus and answer any relevant questions you have, aye?"

Silence greeted him.

"Such a talkative group," he teased. "Well, I love a challenge. Let's start, shall we?"

And before Emma knew what was happening, Professor Jones was walking toward her, sheaf of syllabi in hand, an amused smirk on his handsome features. The breath whooshed out of her lungs, and her limbs suddenly felt like leaden weights. He halted to a stop in front of her desk, and she couldn't quite manage to look in the eye, despite her earlier resolution to act normal and do just that. Paper rustled, and a moment later a thin stack of papers entered her line of vision. She looked up instinctively, and found herself gazing into a pair of striking, ocean blue eyes framed by sinfully long black eyelashes.

His expression shifted as she stared at him, making a fool out of herself, and the playful amusement drained out of his features. Surprise shone on his face for a brief moment, his eyes locked onto hers, before he cleared his throat and looked away. "Miss...?" he said.

"Nolan," she managed. "Emma Nolan."

"Well, Miss Nolan," he said, eyeing her pensively, his voice soft and smooth as cream, "please share these with your classmates, aye?"

She nodded, unable to do anything else, and took one of the papers from the top of the stack. Victor smirked at her out of the corner of her eye. Emma turned to hand the stack of papers to the student behind her, shooting Victor a death glare, while Professor Jones continued to hand out the syllabi to the other rows of students. Slumping in her seat, she propped her head in one palm and scanned the course syllabus, committing it to memory.

Professor Jones began to speak, and she listened to his lilting Irish voice with one ear, going over the course description and necessary texts and materials, answering intermittent questions, while she let her mind wander. Victor's words bothered her more than she had let on. She had tried very hard to integrate Neal into their close-knit group, but neither Victor nor Jefferson had ever taken any particular liking to him, though they managed to tolerate him for her sake. Jefferson's disdain in particular went far beyond simple dislike; it bordered on, if not outright leaped over the fence into loathing. The upperclassman had taken to avoiding her boyfriend's company more and more these days; and though he used the excuse of the staggering amount of work he was under with his triple major, Emma couldn't help but wonder if her roommate was using it as a convenient means to kill two birds with one stone.

She wished she understood what it was all about, but Emma knew better than to question him. For while Victor might be willing to respect her walls and boundaries, Jefferson had never had any qualms about bulldozing right through them if he thought it was necessary. If she asked him the real reasons for his dislike of Neal, he would expect her to answer a question or two he'd been wondering about in return. And Emma wasn't willing to take such a risk.

"...turn the page, you'll see a list of recommended supplemental reading materials," Professor Jones was saying. Emma turned the page obediently and scanned the extensive list, one eyebrow raised. Beside her, Victor whistled softly. "By no means are you required to obtain or make use of these materials, as I certainly won't test you on them," the professor said, and an audible murmur of relief rippled through the classroom, " _but_ ," he emphasized, amusement in his voice again, "those who wish to get the most out of this class and enrich their love for poetry, as well as perhaps their mid-term paper grades," he said with a chuckle, "will dip into at least a few of them for easy comparison and contrast with the required reading."

"In other words, only optional if you want to make a decent grade," Victor moaned quietly. "This guy is intense."

Emma shrugged. She wasn't into poetry, herself. Never had been. It wasn't something she really got, and her high school literature grades reflected that struggle, at least insofar as this one area had been concerned. But even despite all of that, Professor Jone's heavy suggestion to make use of the supplemental reading materials struck her as enthusiastic rather than burdensome. There was something about his voice when he spoke about poetry, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, or describe with words, but it wasn't negative in the slightest. It was...like a five year old anticipating his birthday. Overzealous to share the cake and festivities with everyone else around him.

Professor Jones loved what he did for a living.

She looked up from the syllabus. Her eyes caught his again as he dismissed the class early, promising to see them again on Wednesday. The room erupted in a flurry of noise as desks creaked and feet scuffled across the floor, but Emma made no move to leave. She couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. For in Professor Jones's blue eyes sparked a whisper of something that felt at once both familiar and foreign, though she couldn't for the life of her identify it. She smiled shyly, unaware of the action, until he returned it with a soft smile of his own.

She blinked, breaking his gaze, and a feeling of horror overcame her.  _What the damn hell was that?_  she wondered as Professor Jones became swarmed by her female classmates, wanting to "introduce" themselves and tell him that they looked forward to learning all that he could teach them (she snorted loudly at this, zipping her backpack shut. She couldn't help herself). Victor sighed, hefting his own book bag onto the desk. He cinched it shut and glanced at her.

"Well?" he said in resignation.

"Well what?" She stood up, pulling the straps of her red backpack onto her shoulders.

"Aren't you going to join the slathering horde?" He jerked his head toward the sea of women surrounding Professor Jones, unabashedly vying for his attention. Including the cute girl he'd dubbed "Red."

"Please," she sighed. "I have my dignity." Maybe not much, after today. After she'd made a fool of herself over Professor Jones.  _Twice._  But she would sure as hell preserve what little shreds she had left. "Let's go." She swept toward the door with Victor at her heels, intent to prove to herself that Professor Jones had no effect on her whatsoever, that the gazes they had shared today meant nothing. Not to her. And certainly not to him.

But despite such assurances to herself, she felt the heat of his gaze on her back as she left, just the same.

And shivered.


	2. Chapter 2

Killian Jones, adjunct professor of Literature at Farrenton University, South (which the students affectionately and irreverently shortened to FU), was in trouble. And it was only the end of his first day in the new semester. Watching as the last student filed out of the classroom, he picked up his briefcase; the familiar weight of it comforted him in some small measure, even lacking the additional mass of papers he'd carried in it this morning.

The thought of his first class of the day brought a sigh of frustration. Better that he'd had that batch of students at the end of the day, he thought, flicking off the light as he exited the classroom and began his walk out of the building. He'd been a distracted mess for his last two classes; for the first time since he'd started teaching, he hadn't been able to give his students his full attention or enthusiasm. And though his new students hardly knew the difference, Killian had. Something significant had happened that morning between him and Emma Nolan, and he hadn't been the same since.

Pushing the door open, he exited the building, the late afternoon sun casting shadows on the sidewalk. He walked down a small flight of concrete steps, picking his way around a bike rack as students both former and present greeted him with sunny smiles and shy waves. Nodding at them in turn, he plastered a weak smile on his face and set off toward the nearby parking lot.

Reaching into his pocket, Killian fumbled around for a moment and then pressed the button to unlock his car door. He opened the door and stowed his briefcase on the passenger seat, taking his keys out. He slid into the driver's seat and pulled the door closed after himself. Killian put the key in the ignition, but sat staring at the meticulously-trimmed bushes on the lawn ahead of him, lost in thought. He'd never believed in God, not exactly; which was a rather funny thing, considering all that he did believe in: karma, fate, an afterlife...and soulmates.

He exhaled with a shudder. It was the last one that was going to get him in trouble, he was certain of it. The moment Emma Nolan's gaze had captured his, taking the syllabi he'd proffered her, he'd known. Felt it in his bones, his very soul. He hadn't expected to ever meet someone with that instant connection ever again. He'd always assumed that you got one soulmate in life, and that was it. If you lost your soulmate, like he'd lost his high school sweetheart and fiancé, Milah, well...shit luck for you. Perhaps you'd see them in the afterlife, or in a reincarnated life, if you were lucky (Killian had never decided which he believed to be the truth, but there was  _some_  means of life after death. There had to be. He hadn't been able to bear the thought that Milah was lost to him forever).

He'd lost himself in her eyes a second time, too, right as he'd dismissed class; he'd been helpless to control the urge, utterly overwhelmed by the need to confirm the kindred soul he had sensed earlier. But what he found in the depths of her glittering green eyes the second time only pulled him into the riptide completely. Emma Nolan wasn't just his soulmate. She was a twin soul. Something far deeper and more meaningful than Milah had been to him-though he loved Milah and her memory no less for it. Emma Nolan, whose essence was both familiar and foreign to him at the same time, had completed him, filled a void in him that he'd never known was there until their souls collided.

And he'd learned something else about her, too. She, also, had suffered a deep loss in her life. He'd known it, sensed the wounds with a surety when he'd been able to lock gazes with her longer. The look in her eyes was the same look he'd seen in his own, every time he looked in a mirror. Who had it been? he wondered. Sibling? Close friend? Lover? Parent?

 _Hell and damnation_ , he'd thought to himself as she swept out of his classroom without so much as a word or a backward glance. She'd been the only woman who  _hadn't_  approached him-a thing which both irritated and intrigued him at the same time; another shock, since he'd long grown tired of the hormone-fueled attention he received from his female students. It was always the worst at the start of a semester, or a new class, but there were always a handful of girls who remained doggedly persistent to the point of annoyance. His first year at Farrenton, he'd even had to get a restraining order against a student for stalking.  _That_  had been quite the embarrassing business. Thankfully, she'd been a senior, on her way out of the school, but he'd made certain to keep it in place for a good while, just in case.

Killian leaned back with a sigh, tilting his head upward against the head rest. Closing his eyes, he tried to figure out what to do with this unexpected revelation. She was his student, and relationships with students was strictly forbidden, even if they didn't take your classes. What's more, she was several years his junior. Barely eighteen, from the look of her. And though she was the most gorgeous, alluring woman he'd seen since Milah, he couldn't have her. No matter how much her soul ensnared his, drawing him toward her. How cruel that the universe dangled her in front of him with no means to achieve a happy resolution.

A knock on his window startled him. Killian opened his eyes in confusion and saw Jefferson Hatter standing outside his car, grinning. "Oy," he sighed, sticking his key in the ignition to start his car. It roared to life, and Killian pressed the button to open the driver's side window. "Jefferson," he sighed, "why are you standing outside my window like a stalker? Don't tell me I need to get a restraining order against you, too," he teased, though his words sounded tired rather than playful.

"Saw you passed out in your car," he shrugged. "Wondered if you'd started happy hour a little early."

Killian made a face. Jefferson knew damn well that he didn't drink on days that he taught. And Killian would never get behind the wheel of a car under the influence of even the slightest amount of alcohol, much less  _drive_  inebriated. "Right, cut the crap," he growled. "What do you really want?"

"Someone's touchy," he shot back. "Yeesh. Have you seen Liam? He was supposed to give me a ride back to the apartment. My car's in the shop again."

He sighed. "Probably got detained in traffic," he said, picking up his briefcase to shove it in the back seat. "Hop in. I'll take you home." Jefferson rounded the car, shouldering a leather satchel stuffed to the brim with books, papers, and other academic paraphenalia, and Killian shook his head. Jefferson was either very brilliant or very crazy to balance a Mathematics, Chemistry,  _and_  Physics major; he'd never determined which it was. The kid practically lived at school; if he wasn't in class, he was in the library studying until it closed for the night.

The passenger door opened and Jefferson sat down, pulling his satchel off his shoulder with a grunt.

"Thanks," he said, pulling the door shut. "Not much going on in my classes yet," he explained, as if sensing Killian's thoughts. "Figured I'd go home and bond with the roommates a bit."

"How's that working out for you?" he inquired, peering over his shoulder while he backed the car up.

"Rather well, actually. They're a huge improvement over the last ones."

"For all that you're actually home, you might as well let your father pay the rent for a single," Killian pointed out.

"No way," he argued as they wound their way around the campus toward the nearest exit, "I need to be around people."

"Could have fooled me, with the way you bury yourself in schoolwork."

"And that is precisely the reason that I  _need_  some company. Keeps me from going crazy. Besides, I come out of my cave more than you think."

Killian raised an eyebrow, doubtful, but decided not to press the issue. He turned onto the main road, leaving Farrenton campus behind. "Are you going to intern with my brother again this summer?" he inquired, for lack of anything else to say.

"Definitely," Jefferson agreed, head bobbing up and down with enthusiasm. "The more experience I get, the better it will be for my resume. And Liam's a lot easier to get along with than some of the others I've interned with. Plus, I don't have to move over the summer. I can stay here in town."

"Your roommates going to stay over the summer as well?"

"Doubt it," he replied, becoming pensive. "Victor hasn't chosen a course of study yet, and Emma is going home to her family for the summer." A chill ran down Killian's spine at the familiar name, reminding him of the encounter with his own Emma that morning. "There's a Sheriff's station she can intern at," Jefferson explained, "right in her hometown." Killian slanted a look at him. "Criminal studies," he explained.

He grinned. "She must be an interesting lass to live with."

"You have no idea," Jefferson huffed with a wide grin.

"Sounds like you're smitten. You going to ask her on a date?"

"She's already dating some asshole," he growled, his eyes darkening with anger. "Besides, it's not like that."

"Because you want it that way, or she does?"

A long silence. Killian glanced at Jefferson, who appeared lost in thought. "Both," he finally answered. "Victor and I agreed the week she moved in that our girl was hands-off. I've got a good thing going, finally, and I'm not about to fuck that up."

"Smart decision," he agreed. He turned down the little road that led to Jefferson's apartment building, thinking that Jefferson's cool practicality could be applied to his own situation. Emma Nolan was hands-off, and that was all there was to it. He'd simply have to avoid making eye contact with her until he grew used to her presence. Given enough time, he ought to be able to handle the situation better, and no one would ever be the wiser.

Killian pulled into a parking space in front of the correct building and braked, putting the car in park. He turned off the ignition. "All right, I've brought you here. Now get your arse out of my car," he ordered without rancor, a smile quirking at his lips. Jefferson rolled his eyes and opened the car door as the front door to the little rowhouse apartment opened. A familiar blonde woman stepped out, fit to be tied, and Killian felt his heart stop.

"Jefferson, get your boil-ridden ass in here," she shouted, "and clean up that mess you-" Emma Nolan halted in surprise, her words dying on her lips as she stared back at Killian with a mixture of shock and aggravation.

Killian couldn't help it. He laughed, tickled by her colorful choice of words. He had always admired a lass with a bit of fight in her, and salty language was icing on the cake, to boot.

She blushed a deep red, jamming her hands into the back pockets of her shorts. It took all Killian's self-control not to let his gaze linger on those long legs of hers. "Professor Jones," she greeted him as Jefferson stepped onto the front stoop.

"Wait, he's your professor?" Jefferson exclaimed, darting a look back at Killian. "How come you didn't say anything?" he accused Killian.

"I wasn't aware my student and your roommate were the same person," he said dryly. "Emma's not an uncommon name at Farrenton, and you weren't exactly doling out last names, back there." He glanced at Emma again, giving her a small wave. "See you in class on Wednesday," he told her, making sure not to gaze into her eyes directly. He reached across the car with one arm, slamming the passenger door shut.

 _Hell and damnation_ , he thought again as he drove away. It seemed fate had a hand in this situation, too. And if there was anything Killian Jones knew, you couldn't escape your fate. The only choices were to embrace it or run away from it; it didn't matter which-it found you just the same.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma slammed the front door shut, following Jefferson into the little three bedroom rowhouse apartment. "What the hell was  _that_?" she demanded, angry because she had embarrassed herself in front of the professor yet  _again_. Steadfastly unwilling to examine the reason such humiliation bothered her, she focused on her roommate's sin of omission. "Why didn't you tell me you knew Professor Jones?"

Jefferson carefully extricated himself from the heavy book bag slung across his torso before answering. He tossed it onto the couch, where it promptly bounced into the cushions with force and ricocheted onto the floor, spilling papers everywhere. He swore. "How the hell was I to know you had him?" he shot back, kneeling down to pick up his belongings. "If you would have given me your schedule like I asked you to-"

"I didn't even have mine!" she protested weakly, squatting down to help him. She knew this admission wouldn't exactly help her argument. "I lost it a couple days ago, and I had to get a new copy printed at the registrar's office!"

Her roommate looked up from the mess, books stacked haphazardly in his arms. "And of course you waited until this morning to get it printed, right?" he sighed.

"I thought I might find it again," she admitted with some embarrassment, picking up several pens, a couple of highlighters, and a bottle of white-out.

"Emma, for Chrissakes," he groaned, "just print the damn thing out in my room. I've told you, you're allowed to use it whenever you want."

"Do you go in my room when I'm not around?"

He blinked. "No! I'd never enter without your permission."

"Well, then..."

"Emma!" he rolled his eyes. "The permission is rather heavily implied in 'use my printer whenever you want'." He shoved the stack of books back in his bag. "I don't see what the big damn deal is." He sorted through several papers, organizing them into separate stacks.

"The big damn deal is that I'm deathly afraid I'll misplace some of your homework, or reach for something and erase an equation on that dry erase board, or screw up some chemical experiment-"

"That's what bothers you?" he laughed.

"It's not funny," Emma insisted, throwing the gathered supplies into his book bag without grace. "It makes me nervous, all right? It's too much pressure for me, just standing in the doorway. I don't know how you deal with all of it. When do you even sleep?"

He shrugged. "The time frame varies," he admitted. "But I get enough." He stuffed the last of the papers his bag and leaned it against the couch. "I'm famished. You eaten recently?"

"Not since lunch on campus."

"Great!" he clapped his hands together. "Let's order pizza!"

"Whoa, whoa! What about the mess in the kitchen?" she reminded him as he pulled his wallet out, rifling through the cash inside.

"I'll clean it up later."

"Why not clean it up now?" she countered. "Victor won't be back from his last class for a least another hour anyway."

Jefferson snorted. "I am not waiting for Victor to get back, just so I can eat. I like the guy and all, but..." He patted his stomach. "Not enough to starve myself. He can heat up leftovers when he gets home." He smiled at her. "So what do you want on the pizza?"

"Pepperoni and bacon," Emma sighed, resigned. "But you'd better clean up while we wait for it to be delivered," she insisted stubbornly. "Extra cheese," she added to the order as an afterthought.

Jefferson bobbed his head in response."Fine, fine," he placated, taking his phone out of his back pocket. He pressed a succession of buttons, dialing their favorite pizza place, and Emma flopped onto the couch, considering her professor's reaction to the tirade she'd started to unleash on Jefferson when she walked onto the front stoop. He'd laughed at her, or at least her choice of words, which confirmed the sense of humor his demeanor had hinted at in class that morning. Emma should have felt comforted by this fact, for professors with an open sense of humor were more likely to be merciful in grading or easy to approach about much-needed extensions, unlike the hard-nosed, rigid types. But something about Professor Jones's sense of humor unsettled her.

Emma puzzled over this while Jefferson set about cleaning the kitchen, pizza ordered. Curling up on the beat up old brown couch under the blue-and-grey knit afghan her mother had sent her to college with ("To make the place seem more like home," Mary-Margaret had insisted), Emma reviewed her morning in Introduction to Poetry and realized the reason Professor Jones's sense of humor disconcerted her. The instant connection she had felt with him was dangerous enough, drawing her attention and awareness toward him in a way that was altogether inappropriate. It was something she should run from, and fast.

But Professor Jones's sense of humor made that difficult, for it only made him more real to her, like a friend. Like someone her own age. Someone she could go for coffee with. Someone she could fall for.

 _No, Emma,_  she chastised herself amid the sound of Jefferson sweeping up remnants of broken glass.  _No, you will not go there. You won't._

She couldn't. She just couldn't. The idea was stupid anyway. It was just a crush. A horrible, inconvenient crush. But one that she worried might grow out of control if she didn't nip it in the bud immediately. She wouldn't become one of her simpering classmates. She refused to sink to that level. Emma just needed to divert her attention somehow, bury herself in the course work-distasteful as the subject was to her. And never, ever let her mind wander to the handsome young professor.

As it had for the past fifteen minutes, she realized, looking at her watch with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 _Fuck_ , she thought.

Jefferson sat down on the couch next to her, slanting her a pensive look. "What's on your mind?"

"Thinking about how awkward that little scene outside was," she confessed. "I can't believe he heard me call your ass boil-ridden."

Her roommate laughed, patting her on the knee. Or the closest approximation, with the afghan covering her lap. It was more her thigh, maybe. "Don't worry about, Emma. I've heard him say far more colorful. It's not like you shocked him or anything."

She raised an eyebrow at this tidbit of information. "No," she answered after a moment, "he just laughed at me."

"And what? You're going to hold that against him or something? Emma, come on! It was  _funny_." He grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," she groused. "So how do you know him anyway? You take his classes?"

"Nope, not a one. Met him my freshman year-his first year teaching, by the by-when I volunteered to help him run the university's version of a dead poets society." He flushed, looking embarrassed. "There was...a girl," he admitted. "She loved that sort of thing. Thought I could win her over, if I developed an interest in it."

"Get out of town!" she shoved at his shoulder in a playful manner, grinning. "You had a life once? A crush?"

"I still have a life!" he shot back. "And I'm too busy for dating," he deflected.

"Uh-huh," she snorted. "I somehow doubt that would stop you if you met someone." He glanced at her sidelong. "Then again, how the hell you'll ever meet anyone with your impossible course load these days is beyond me." She leaned back against the arm of the couch, resting her feet in Jefferson's lap. "So. Who was she? Did you ever win her over?"

"Uh, it's...she's not important anymore," he brushed the question away with a wave of his hand. "And no, I never won her affections. She was too fixated on the Professor."

"Oh." Emma swallowed slowly, avoiding his gaze. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's over and done with. Anyway," he continued, "he found out I was a chem major-this was before I added the mathematics and physics-and he introduced me to his brother, Liam. A good thing it was, too, or I might not have had an internship over the summer, after things fell apart at my previous internment."

"That was nice of him," she admitted grudgingly. Why did the man seem so utterly perfect, the more she learned about him?

"Yeah." An impish smile formed on Jefferson's face and Emma's eyes widened. She pulled her feet away, but Jefferson reached over and snagged one of them anyway. "You know what happens when you use me as a foot rest," he reminded her, tickling the bottom of her bare foot.

"No! No!" she gasped in between helpless giggles, trying in vain to kick him away with her other foot. "Stop! I'll get-" She hiccupped. Too late. "-the hic-hiccups, damn it."

The door bell rang, and Jefferson pushed her foot away with a grin. "Serves you right." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

"I-I have some-money," she managed between hiccups.

"No good," he told her. "I'm paying this round, since I'm actually home early for once. You or Victor can get the next." He opened the front door, his attention diverted while he checked their order and paid the deliveryman.

Emma inhaled deeply, holding her breath. Damn Jefferson and his story about Professor Jones, making things worse. Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

 _Hey babe_ , came the text from Neal.  _Got 2 sweet tickets 2 a Chili Peppers concert Friday. U up for it?_

Of course. Neal. Emma expelled the breath she'd been holding. She felt ashamed that she'd temporarily forgotten about him amidst her musings about her hot new professor. Another reason she had to get over this stupid crush already. It wasn't fair to him.

Assuaging her guilty conscience, she quickly texted back,  _Absolutely. Meet for coffee in the morning?_

_U got it. Pick u up at 8? When's ur first class?_

_9\. Statistics. 8 it is._

_Awesome. Catch ya in the morning, princess._

The scent of hot pizza wafted toward her, and she looked up to see Jefferson peering down at her with a frown. "What?"

"Neal?" he inquired, irritation and resignation etched onto his face.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Emma, it's not like you get a lot of texts from other people," he pointed out, doing an about-face and walking toward the kitchen, pizza boxes balanced on his fingertips like a waiter. "None of us are exactly...inundated with friends," he said diplomatically, setting the pizza down on the small, round table that was tucked into one corner of the kitchen. "Besides, I know the look you get."

"I have a look?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Look, let's just eat and talk about something else so I don't lose my appetite."

Emma threw the afghan off her lap and shoved it aside. "All right," she agreed, standing up. "But he's picking me up in the morning, so be nice." Her roommate groaned, opening one of the boxes. "And we have a date Friday," she warned, figuring it was better to prepare him for it now, in case he and Victor had other ideas for that night. "So you and Victor can go have a boys night at the bar or something."

"Emma," he growled, jerking his head toward the piece of pizza he was holding. "Food. Appetite. Shut up."

She grinned. "Okay, okay. Jeez." She reached forward and snagged her own piece. "First one to finish three slices gets to pick the movie tonight," she challenged.

A confident glint entered Jefferson's eyes. "You're on."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The next chapter will be the first working class, so to speak, so get ready for some poetry and lots of Killian.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The poems discussed in Killian's class are pretty well known, and you can google them if you like, to reference during the class discussion in this chapter.
> 
> Just a quick note: All poems used in this fic that are *not* referenced in the text with an author are of my own creation. Please be gentle. I am not much of a poet, being better at stories, but I'm really trying for the purposes of this story. ;)
> 
> Now, on with the chapter!

Killian sipped at his chai tea while his car idled in front of the grey-and-white stone cottage. He glanced up, looking for any sign of his best mate. Nothing.  _Well, give it a couple more minutes_ , he thought, returning his attention to the legal pad propped against his steering wheel.  _He's not late yet._

He sighed, putting his tea back in the cup holder. Crossing through the previous line, he muttered to himself. "Skeletal?" he pondered, "Or ashen? Microscopic? No, I like ashen better." He scribbled another sentence, then stared at it with disgust. He'd been working on this piece for weeks, but it just wouldn't come together for him. The whole bloody thing was a mess, and the more he tinkered with it, the worse it got. Growling in frustration, he stabbed the page a bit vengefully with his pen and scratched out the entirety of the poem. The sheet tore through.

Glancing up, he checked for his mate again. "Come on, Lakeland!" He honked the horn a few times. "Hurry your arse up already!"

Killian flipped to a fresh page on his legal pad. Maybe he was over-thinking it a bit much. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps some free writing was in order. He just needed to let his mind go, quash his inner critic, and let his subconscious take over. Killian closed his eyes, trying to clear away the recalcitrant remnants of the previous poem. Tapping his pen against the page, he opened his eyes and began to write, letting his subconscious take control.

_They tantalise, these_

_Eyes of gemstone green._

_My forbidden fruit._

Killian stared in horror at the haiku that had poured out of him. " _Fuuuuck_ ," he groaned.

"Well, good morning to you, too!" a voice chortled.

He started. Killian hadn't even heard the car door open. "You're late," he accused his mate, "which means if I don't speed,  _I'll_  be late."

"Sorry."

Killian studied Eric for a moment, taking in his flushed cheeks, self-satisfied smile, and the twinkle in his clear blue eyes. He laughed, tossing his legal pad in the back seat of the car. "No, you're not." He shook his head, releasing the parking break. "I take it married life is still treating you very well?" Killian shifted the car into drive and looked over at Eric with a smirk.

Eric buckled his seat belt. "Extremely." He returned the smirk. "Speaking of-"

Killian groaned, signaling before he pulled out into the street. " _No_."

"Come on, Ariel says she's perfect for you!"

"That's what she said about the last dozen she's set me up with.  _No_  thank you," he declared, turning out of Eric's neighborhood. "I'm done."

"If this one doesn't work out," Eric entreated, "we'll leave you alone for good, I swear."

Killian glanced over at him skeptically. "Still not interested."

"Why not? What have you got to lose besides sitting home this weekend, writing morbid poetry?"

"Hey!" he protested. "My poetry is  _not_  all morbid."

"Most of it is," Eric pushed back. "Come on, Killian. That's not good for you. And it isn't going to bring Milah back. It's been ten years now since that drunken bastard collided with her and ran her car off the road. I know that's not something you ever really get over, especially since you were engaged, but she would want you to move on, not fixate on her memory and the ghosts of what-could-have-been for the rest of your life."

 _Shows how much you know_ , Killian thought wearily. Writing poetry was the only outlet he had to keep his lingering emotions concerning Milah from eating him alive. But Eric didn't write, had neither the talent nor the temperament for it. Nor had he ever suddenly lost someone he loved more than life itself, as Killian had. Of course he didn't understand. He couldn't, not even by association. He hadn't been there, hadn't known Killian back when it had happened, the summer after high school graduation. Hadn't been the one devastated to lose his fiancé after just two months of planning a future together. Hadn't been the one denied the chance to even see Milah one last time, because the accident had mangled her too horribly for an open casket funeral. Hadn't visited her graveside every day for months, unmindful of the rain or wind or cold, his forehead pressed against her gravestone, just to feel near to her again in some small measure.

He'd never been robbed of his beloved, his happy ending, his future, his  _life_.

"I'll have you know that I wrote something quite hopeful this morning," he argued, trying to block out the horrible images that his imagination always conjured of Milah lying broken and bloodied in the ditch. Sometimes he wondered whether seeing the reality of what the accident had done to Milah would have been better than the nightmares his mind dreamed up, sleeping or not. It didn't matter. He'd never had the choice. Milah's parents had made it for him, made it for everyone, denying others any chance of seeing their daughter again, even to say farewell.

"Sort of," he finished. If longing for a forbidden fruit could be considered hopeful.

"Great. Let me see it."

"It's not finished yet," he hedged, realizing his error too late.  _Dammit_. He couldn't let Eric see that haiku. He would ask far too many questions. Questions Killian did not want to answer.

"Uh-huh. I thought so," Eric said as Killian turned on to university property. "Come on. Just go on the date. Unless, of course, there's someone else you have your eye on?" he joked.

"No," Killian answered quickly, turning down the lane that would take them toward the staff parking lot that was located between his building and Eric's.  _Too_  quickly. He could feel Eric's stare burning a hole through him.

" _Re_ ally? That certainly sounded like a 'yes' to me, never mind word choice. Who is she?"

"No one," Killian growled softly. "Drop it," he advised. "It would never work out anyway."

"Why not?"

"She's taken." Not a lie, from what Jefferson had said.

"I see." He was silent for a while as Killian searched the parking lot for an open space. "All the more reason, you know, to get out of the house," Eric finally said. "Instead of moping."

"I do  _not_  mope," he protested. "I said drop it, all right?" He pulled into a space at the back of the staff parking lot. He would have to run from here in order to make it to his classroom on time.

"Fine," Eric said, unbuckling. Killian grabbed his tea and followed suit. They exited the car in unison. "I'll drop it if you go on the date."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he all but shouted, yanking open the rear door of his car. "Fine, I'll go on the bloody date." He placed the tea on the roof of the car and reached for the legal pad, tucking it under one arm. He grabbed his briefcase and slammed the car door shut, locking his vehicle.

"Great, Ariel has all the details," Eric informed him as Killian picked up his tea. "Call her over your next break."

Killian sighed. "What's this girl's name, anyway?"

"Bell," Eric said with a wave before setting off in the opposite direction. "Tina Bell."

* * *

Killian hurried down the hallway toward his assigned classroom. He was late, despite his best efforts otherwise. Nearly ten minutes.  _Damn you, Eric,_  he thought resentfully. Killian hated being late. Particularly for his classes. He was tempted to back out of the date just to spite his mate, but abandoned the idea almost immediately. His friends would only nag him all the more. Better just to go, and shut them up for a while, because he held absolutely no illusions that Ariel wouldn't talk Eric into setting Killian up with another blind date if this one didn't work out-promises be damned. Ariel wouldn't be able to help herself. It was as if, having found her own true love, it had suddenly become her mission in life to help everyone else find theirs. Especially Killian.

"Oof!" Something knocked into his chest. Killian stumbled back, nearly dropping his tea. "Miss Nolan!" he said in surprise, when he looked up. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she backed away, clutching the straps of her backpack with a nervous look. "I'm really sorry! I know I'm late! I was in a hurry, and I didn't see you."

"Likewise," he nodded. "I'll let you in on a little secret, though. You're not actually  _late_  if you get in there before the professor does." He looked at the door meaningfully.

Her brow furrowed. "Yeah, I guess not." She reached for the door, glancing back at him. "Sure you can manage all that?" She nodded at his full hands.

"Quite sure. But you get an 'A' for the day, just for your consideration," he joked with a smile. Oh God, had he just flirted with her? Damn it all. Flustered, he wracked his brain for something, anything, he could say to save face.

Emma smiled uncertainly. "Thanks," she told him, opening the door. "I'll probably need it."

The door swung closed after her, and Killian leaned against it, eyes fluttering closed.  _Hell and damnation_ , he thought, trying to collect himself. How was he going to make it through an entire semester? It was only the second day of classes, and he was already failing miserably in his resolve to stay professional in his manner toward Emma Nolan. Here he was, unintentionally flirting with her and making a right arse of himself besides.

 _How in the hell am I supposed to stop behaving like this if I don't even know when I'm doing it?_  he wondered, opening his eyes. Carefully shifting his things around, he opened the classroom door. It was going to be a very long semester.

"Good morning," he greeted his students as he made his way over to the table on the opposite side of the room. "Glad to see you haven't invoked the ten minute rule," he winked, instigating a ripple of laughter. "My apologies for being tardy. Carpooling complications." He set his tea down, then his briefcase, before extricating the legal pad. He gazed around the classroom. Opening the briefcase, he stowed the legal pad inside and removed his notes before locking it up again.

Killian ran a hand through his hair as he switched into teaching mode. "Now, I hope you've all done your reading, because we're going to skip the normal preliminaries and dive right in this morning." He sauntered over to the podium and laid his papers on it. "Open your books, please. We'll start with Shakespeare's eighteenth sonnet, "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?" I'm sure you're all familiar with it. It's one of his most famous poems. Can anyone tell me what it is about?"

A dozen or more hands shot into the air. Killian smiled in amusement. "So eager," he chuckled. "I could hardly get you to talk last time." He gestured toward an attractive brunette with red streaks running through her long hair. "Yes? And you are?"

"Ruby," she smiled, every blindingly white tooth bared and on display. Killian couldn't help but feel a little like a meal being sized up by a large predator. "Ruby Lucas."

"And what do you think this poem is about, Miss Lucas?" he repeated the question.

"Love," she said simply.

"All right," he answered, "and based on the techniques for interpretation that you read about in your course packet, how do you arrive at that conclusion?"

"The speaker calls the subject's beauty and faithfulness 'more lovely and temperate' than a fleeting summer's day."

"Very good," he approved. "And why do you say a summer's day is fleeting?"

"Because it doesn't last. It fades away, and eventually summer isn't summer anymore. It turns into autumn." She shrugged a shoulder. "The speaker even says so. 'Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,' she quoted, 'And summer's lease hath all too short a date.' It's not constant or faithful like the subject is; it can change or fade away at a moment's notice."

"Excellent." She beamed at him, eyelashes fluttering becomingly. Killian carefully ignored that and diverted his attention to the rest of the class. "Anyone else have some insights? Perhaps offer a different interpretation?"

Hands went up again. Killian nodded at a student with loads of curly red hair. "Yes? Your name?"

"Merida," she supplied in a Scottish brogue. Killian smiled a little at the sound of it, a little homesick for his own Ireland. "I think the poem's larger message isn't about romantic love at all, but man's grasping at immortality."

"How so?"

"The structure of the poem. The speaker spends the first eight lines of the sonnet contrasting the subject with the capriciousness of nature, painting the subject as something more constant. But the speaker then goes on to seemingly contradict his own position at the close of the poem." She looked up with confident, almost challenging stare, as if daring him to contradict her.

Killian couldn't help it. He grinned, walking over to the table to retrieve his tea. He remembered Merida now. She'd cornered him for several minutes after the first class, peppering him with questions about the coursework and grading system. If he wasn't very much mistaken, she'd turn out to be his star pupil. "Go on," he directed. "Please elaborate." He sipped at the warm liquid and sat down on a corner of the table.

"It's obvious in the language the speaker uses in the final six lines of the poem: 'eternal,' 'Death,' 'fade,' 'shade,' 'time.' They all point toward the theme of loss. But instead of embracing the inevitability of death for the subject, the speaker insists that the subject 'shall not fade' or 'lose possession' of her fairness or youth." She paused. "But we all know that isn't true. Death  _is_  inevitable. What really clinches the speaker's grasping toward immortality are the last two lines of the poem: 'So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,'" she recited, "'So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.'" Merida crossed her arms. "Immortality. The speaker insists the subject won't succumb to the decay of death, but live on forever because he is endowing her with a type of immortality-the 'this' in the poem."

"Excellent," Killian cut in smoothly. "A very solid interpretation." Merida smiled smugly, sitting up straighter in her chair at his praise. Ruby looked crestfallen. Killian quickly sipped his tea again, to stifle a laugh. "But what does the 'this' refer to, that gives the subject immortality?" he asked a moment later. "Anyone have ideas?" He nodded at a blonde-haired man sitting next to Emma. Killian very carefully keeping his eyes trained on the young man as he spoke.

"The poem," he said without preamble, "is the 'this' the speaker refers to. The written word survives far past the human lifespan. And life is as inevitable a thing for humanity as death. For every life that ends, another one begins somewhere else. So each time a new person, or life, reads the poem, the immortality of the poem's subject is extended. Living on in the poem is as close as we can attain to immortality, objectively speaking, as human beings." He paused. "Victor Whale, by the way."

Killian's mind flashed toward the poem he'd written about Emma that morning. "I agree," he said shortly. "Thank you, Mr. Whale." Killian's eyes slid over to Emma of their own accord, having been restrained too long. She was staring at Victor with an impressed look upon her face. Killian felt an irrational surge of jealousy until he remembered that one of Emma's roommates was named Victor. Could that be him? Victor wasn't a particularly common name these days.

"All right, let's move on to the next poem," Killian said after a brief internal debate about whether to add another layer of interpretation to the poem with its historical context. He decided against it. There would be time enough to revisit the sonnet and discuss that when they began their actual section on Shakespeare soon. For now it was enough to get his students used to supporting their interpretations with the text. That was critical. Too many of his students came to him, fresh out of high school, which was  _supposed_  to prepare them for college, with no real grasp of poetry at all, much less any idea of how to support their own interpretation of it instead of pulling it from their arse.

He led them through the analyses of two other poems, each vastly different in style from the one before it, showcasing a sampling of the breadth and variety poetry had to offer. Killian took an idle sip of his tea from time to time as they discussed and argued, uncaring of the fact that it had long ago grown cold. He had long grown used to lukewarm tea over the years, sitting up into the wee hours of the morning while he scribbled out poems, heedless of time's passage until the creative fever that gripped him finally broke.

"We have time for one more poem," he decided, sneaking a peek at the watch on his wrist. "Let's go over "The Red Wheelbarrow," by William Carlos Williams." The fluttering sound of pages being turned filled his ears. Killian consulted his notes. "Now," he said, "who wants to take a crack at this one?"

Silence.

"Merida?"

The red-haired girl considered the poem before her with a frown. "Um," she said, clearly stumped herself, but unwilling to admit it, "it's an ode about the piece of equipment that lets him get his work done."

"Not exactly. It's not praising or admiring the wheelbarrow," he corrected, "but that's a good guess. Anyone else?" More silence. Killian set aside his notes and stood up. "Well, let's parse it down, shall we?" He ambled over to the blackboard. Picking up a piece of chalk, he rolled it in his hand for a moment, thinking, and then began to write.

"Thankfully," he told his students as he copied out the lines of the poem from memory, "you have the poem in front of you, so you don't have to ruin your eyes trying to read my chicken scratch." Nervous laughter rippled through the room as he copied out the last lines of the poem. "The joke was unintended, I assure you," he smiled.

"Now," he spoke up, facing his students again. "Look at the poem. What do you notice about it?"

"It's very short. Only eight lines," someone called out from the back.

"And what else do you notice?"

"The imagery," Ruby said. "A wheelbarrow, chickens, rain. The contrast of red and white. It's very rustic. Maybe the speaker is a farmer?" she guessed.

"Very likely," he agreed. "So what is the poem about? What is its purpose? What is it trying to communicate?"

"It's a meditative poem," Mulan offered. "The speaker is reflecting on 'how much depends upon' this wheelbarrow. How necessary it is to him."

"No," Merida argued suddenly, inspiration lighting in her eyes, "it's transformative. The wheelbarrow is 'glazed with rain water'. Rain is symbolic of cleansing, of change. The wheelbarrow is a metaphor. The speaker is saying that 'so much depends' on the transformation of something ordinary, this wheelbarrow, into something extraordinary that can reach beyond itself to feed thousands of people."

That lit a spark in the more soft-spoken Mulan, who pushed back with ferocity, throwing down a gauntlet in favor of her own interpretation, supporting it with a passion that suggested she were waging war itself. Merida responded in kind, her words and arguments as sharp and on target as arrows, and soon the whole class was in a massive, full blown debate over the simple, eight line poem.

Killian leaned against the blackboard with a grin, crossing his arms as he took it all in. This was what he liked to see, the debate, the passion and excitement for his subject. But there was one student, Killian noticed, who didn't join in the debate. She sat quietly at her desk instead, staring at her opened book, brow furrowed, frowning.

"Miss Nolan," he cut through the noise, "you look confused." The other students gradually quieted when they realized Killian had spoken.

Emma looked up from her book. "I don't see any of that," she confessed with a shrug of her shoulder. "It's just a poem about a red wheelbarrow."

"Hmm." He laid his chalk down and raked a hand through his hair. "Is it? Would it interest you to know that Williams never titled the poem himself, but originally published it as poem twenty-two? That the title was later added by publishers?"

Mulan looked thoughtful.

"Makes you look at the poem differently, doesn't it?" Killian went on. "Takes the focus off the wheelbarrow. Let's parse this poem down, shall we, and see what Williams is on about." He gestured to the poem scrawled across the board. "Let's go back to those lines. We noted how short they are. Succinct. Compact. Yet they all form one long sentence. One thought. But look at the way the sentence, the lines are broken up: a line of three words followed by a line with a single word." He picked up the chalk and underscored the first two lines of the poem to emphasize his point. "They are all like this. Williams is trying to tell us something with such repetition."

Killian pointed to the first line again. "'so much depends on,'" he emphasized. "The secondary lines are themselves dependent upon the first line. The structure itself  _is_  the poem: This isn't about a wheelbarrow at all. It's about dependence. About relying on something outside of yourself. The acknowledgement that you can't control everything. Unforeseen events happen. For a farmer, that could be hail, pests, even drought. Before you know it, your whole-your whole life can be gone in an instant," he stumbled. "And there's nothing you can do to stop it," he finished quietly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and checked his watch. "Dismissed."

His students shuffled out of the room. None stopped to speak with him, sensing, it seemed that something was amiss.  _Dammit_ , he thought. He hadn't intended to lose control like that. He never had before. Yet his discussion with Eric in the car this morning had turned his thoughts toward Milah, the circumstances of her death, and it had left him feeling raw.

Heaving a sigh, he gathered his notes together and walked over to put them away in his briefcase. He scanned the classroom out of habit to make sure nothing was amiss, and saw Emma sitting at her desk. She was watching him.  _What's wrong?_  her eyes whispered, full of compassion.  _Did you lose someone, too?_

 _My whole world_ , he answered silently, holding her gaze for a moment.

"Did you, ah, need something, Miss Nolan?" he felt compelled to ask, looking away.

"No." She scooped her books into her arms and stood up. "I was just leaving."

"See you Friday, then."

"Okay." She rounded the other desks on her trek to the door. She looked over her shoulder. Her green eyes were full of sympathy. "Friday."

He watched her leave the classroom and expelled a heavy sigh. He locked his briefcase. Perhaps his friends were right about dating. This situation was too dangerous. He needed to get out, meet someone else closer to his age. He shouldn't be so affected by Emma.  _Couldn't_  be. She was his student. Off limits, no matter how much he felt drawn to her.

Killian walked over to the door and flicked the lights out. He threw away his empty cup in the wastebasket and swept out of the classroom, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket. Dialing with his thumb, he pressed the ringing phone to his ear a moment later. "Hey, Ariel," he said when the voicemail picked up, "it's Killian. Eric told me you wanted to set me up on blind date this weekend. Call me back with the details, aye?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, you got to see Killian do a little of his teaching thing. What do you think? Hopefully I wasn't too rusty with my technique, and my interpretations were relatively solid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter was every bit as fun to write as I envisioned. Hope you enjoy it!

Emma studied the poem in front of her, trying to make sense of it. She had already skimmed the poems for Friday's class on Wednesday night, after she had returned from a freshman mixer sponsored by the Student Union, but Emma had been too exhausted from more socializing done in two hours than she had probably done in the past two  _years,_  to even begin to comprehend them. It hadn't helped, either, that her mind kept drifting to Professor Jones, and how hard the plane of his chest had felt when she'd bumped into him, how hot he had looked in his two-piece navy suit and baby blue dress shirt that brought out his eyes in a way that made them seem electric. That alone was bad enough. But no, he'd had to make it far worse during class, seating himself on the corner of a table, casual as could be, sipping tea and absently licking and biting his lips in a way that made her want to gouge her own eyes out from the frustration.

And when he had absentmindedly smeared chalk dust in his hair while standing at the blackboard explaining the poem about the wheelbarrow, Emma nearly had a heart attack on the spot. For reasons quite unfathomable, she found it intensely arousing; her lungs had closed up, and for a moment Emma quite forgot how to breathe. Thankfully, Professor Jones and everyone else had been too absorbed in the analysis to notice. Emma had never been so grateful for anything in her entire life.

But none of it, absolutely none of it, compared to the moment of intense connection they had shared after class. Spurred by the flicker of pain she'd seen in his face, heard in his voice, when he'd interpreted the William Carlos Williams poem, Emma hung behind after class. Offering vague excuses to her roommate about misplacing something important and catching up to him later, Emma had settled back into her chair, watching Professor Jones with quiet compassion while he packed up his notes and gathered his belongings together. Looking back on it, she still didn't understand  _why_  the hell she had done it-what good she thought it might do, or what difference she might make.

But when he had looked up, becoming aware of her presence, their gazes locked together like two complementary pieces of a puzzle.  _What's wrong?_  Emma had wanted to ask, not quite daring to do so.  _Did you lose someone too?_  she wondered.

 _My whole world,_  his eyes had telegraphed back with a depth of sorrow that Emma was unfortunately all too familiar with. It sent a jolt through her, his silent answer, and something in her shifted. She couldn't put her finger on what, exactly, but it was as if her entire world had just tilted on its axis, and although it should have freaked her out, this moment of understanding between them, it somehow hadn't. For the first time since her father's death, Emma felt as if someone besides her mother finally understood the pain, the loneliness from losing a loved one. And she theirs.

"You know, if you stare at that any harder, you'll burn a hole right through it."

Smiling, Emma looked up at her roommate. "Says the man who gets far more intense about his work than anyone I've ever met."

Jefferson collapsed into a seat next to her with a grin. "Guilty as charged." He reached over, swiping her book. "Let me see it. I used to be okay at this poetry thing."

"Oh?" She smiled. "Lots of practice trying to impress that girl you told me about, back in the day?"

"Something like that."

Emma leaned back in her chair, surveying her surroundings with interest while Jefferson took a crack at the poem. The pub, which was within walking distance of the campus, had been so quiet just an hour before, but now bustled with activity; students and townies crowded into it with hopes of beating the dinner rush, but ironically only contributed to it. She had only been here with her roommates a handful of times before, but Breen's was the type of place that welcomed you with open arms no matter how little you visited. The pub was cozy, and softly lit, the interior lighting casting a gentle glow on the dark wood paneling throughout. Tables of assorted sizes and shapes were crammed onto the main floor, giving the atmosphere an eclectic feel that was only amplified by the random bits of memorabilia and photographs that hung from the ceiling and walls. High-backed stools lined the long bar on the far side of the room-a bar that was said to have been brought over from Ireland itself by Darragh Breen, four generations prior, making the pub nearly as old as Farrenton University itself.

"You know, I don't think I've ever read this poem by Keats before," Jefferson commented as he read. "'Ode to a Grecian Urn' or 'Ode to a Nightingale,' sure. But not 'A Draught of Sunshine.'"

"Well, 'Ode to a Grecian Urn' and 'Ode to a Nightingale' are on the syllabus, too, among others. We're spending two class periods on Keats before we move on to Donne. So anything you can contribute is helpful."

"Mmm," Jefferson replied absently.

Emma shook her head with a smile. He knew that sound. Jefferson's mind was hard at work now, fully engaged with the poem before him. Real conversation would be lost on him until he surfaced from study mode. She gazed around the pub, her eyes falling on the bar wistfully. Although she was older than most of her freshman classmates, she was still about nine months shy of legally being able to drink. That never stopped her at parties or in the privacy of their own apartment, of course (Did it ever stop most college students?), but Breen's was said to have the best beer on tap in the whole of Farrenton; Emma longed to know if it was true.

She turned her gaze away with a sigh, and a tall figure with dark hair caught her eye. Emma's head swiveled around again, her heart beating like mad. But it turned out his build wasn't quite right ( _And how do you know that, Emma?_  she chastised herself), his nose was too large, and his chin a rather too round, to be Professor Jones.  _Great_ , she told herself,  _you're seeing him places, now, too. Get a grip! You're as bad as those simpering fools in your class. He's just a man_.

 _The hottest man to ever walk the face of the earth_ , a small voice nagged.

Unsettled by the direction of her thoughts yet again, Emma was quite relieved when Jefferson finally spoke.

"I think I've got it."

"Got what?" Victor wondered, plopping into a chair across from them. "Did you order yet?"

"No, we were waiting for you," Emma reminded him. She turned to Jefferson. "You were saying about the poem?"

"I think it's about having hope even when things seem dark; to not give in to despair. See, it's all in the language Keats uses-"

"You're helping Emma with her poetry?" Victor interrupted with a narrow look.

"She was stuck," he said defensively. "And you weren't here yet. Is it a crime to help my roommate out?"

"No, but shouldn't she do the work for herself?" Victor said pointedly. "She's never going to learn to analyze and understand them for herself if you  _hold her hand_."

Jefferson flushed. He stole a glance at Emma. "He's right. Discussing is one thing. Giving answers is another. Sorry. I just...saw how frustrated you looked and wanted to help."

She sighed. "It's fine. It's my fault; I shouldn't have let you. But I just don't get this poetry stuff. How can you discuss a poem if you don't know what it's about?"

"You've read the interpretation techniques in the packet?" Victor asked with an arch of his brow.

"Yes. Five times, at least," she griped. "But I can't put it all together like everyone else does. I mean, I circle and highlight things that stand out to me, but I can't put it together into a coherent synthesis. It's like one of those collages made entirely out of pictures of people. Everyone else looks at the collage and sees this great, elaborate picture. But all I see is a jumbled mess of strangers' pictures."

"It's still early," Victor mused, "it will get easier with time."

"Maybe," she said dubiously. "I had trouble with this in high school, too."

"You could always approach Professor Jones after class," Jefferson suggested. "Or during office hours. I'm sure he'll be glad to help. This stuff is his passion."

"I've noticed," she smiled. "Come on, let's order. I'm starving."

Dinner was an entertaining affair for the three roommates; what it lacked in alcohol, it more than made up for in boisterous laughter and wisecracks. They were having so much fun that none of them felt like heading home so early, studies be damned, and they piled into Jefferson's newly repaired car. Things quickly switched from merry to heated, however, once choosing a radio station became an issue. Jefferson, who favored hard rock, had almost no common musical ground with Victor, who listened mostly to classical. Emma's own musical tastes lay somewhere in between, so perhaps it was for this reason that she finally hit upon a compromise.

"Here," she said, interrupting their argument as she slipped a CD into the car's CD player from where she sat, riding shotgun. "This ought to please you both."

"What is it?" Victor asked suspiciously, leaning forward from his seat in the back.

Emma hid the CD case underneath her coat, away from his view. "Just listen," she advised, turning up the volume as it began to play.

"Emma! What is this? An audio book?" Jefferson wrinkled his nose as people began speaking in booming voices. "About...an auction?"

"Give it a chance. Just-there we go," she grinned as the overture blasted through the speakers, the strains of a rock influence melding with the operatic music into something absolutely magical that gave her chills every time she heard it.

"What is this?" Jefferson asked after a moment, his voice soft.

Emma glanced over at her roommate. His expression was faintly surprised, almost entranced. "Phantom of the Opera," she answered, peering into the rearview mirror for Victor's reaction. Her other roommate had settled against the back seat, his eyes closed, with his hands folded in his lap, a faint smile on his face.

"It's...incredible," Jefferson said after a moment. He smiled over at her. "Thanks for helping us to not kill each other."

"No problem," Emma sighed, letting herself relax and be swept away into the story.

The three roommates cruised around town for a while, listening to the entirety of the two-disc soundtrack, only pausing once to fill Jefferson's car with gas during the natural intermission between discs. A lively discussion followed its conclusion, leaving the roommates feeling rather energized and raucous, so Jefferson pulled up to a drug store and parked the car. "Everybody out!" he called, opening his door.

"Wait, why are we here?" Emma asked, confused.

"Haven't you ever just stopped someplace random to mess around and have fun?"

"Umm...not really."

"Then you're gonna learn tonight," he informed her, locking the car after everyone was out. "Come on."

What followed was a rather amusing display from her male roommates. Although Jefferson swore Emma needed to join the fun, too, it wasn't long before the guys fixated on the toy aisle, throwing plastic balls back and forth, and setting off sound effects on electronic toys, forgetting all about bullying her into doing the same. She hung back, watching for a while, laughing to herself at their antics, before she remembered that she legitimately needed something while she was here.

Emma told them where she was going, but they didn't seem to hear her, being too preoccupied with dueling each other up and down the aisle with plastic swords. Shaking her head, she wound her way to the other side of the store, humming bits of the soundtrack to herself. Turning down the aisle that contained the feminine products she needed, Emma stopped dead in her tracks, staring in horror at the spectacle before her.

Professor Jones stood at the other end of the aisle, wearing sneakers, a pair of dark, form-fitting blue jeans, and a Metallica t-shirt that showed off the muscles of his arms and chest all too well. He couldn't have looked more like sex on legs. A fact that was unfortunately glaringly reinforced by the display of condoms he stood near, tapping on his phone furiously with one thumb, an intense look of concentration on his face, while he held a small basket in his other hand. Emma swallowed, mortified and humiliated. She edged backwards, hoping to make a stealthy retreat before he noticed her, but only succeeded in knocking over a display of half-off tampons.

"Shit!" she cursed under her breath, feeling her cheeks flame with embarrassment. She turned quickly, stacking the boxes on the shelf in a haphazard fashion.

"Emma?" he called from close behind her. She froze. "Miss Nolan?"

 _Shit._  She turned, offering him a weak smile, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. She stowed the last box of tampons back on the shelf. Her gaze couldn't seem to settle, period. Everywhere she looked, from the bit of chest hair that peeked out from the neck of his t-shirt to the soft pinkness of his lips, made her blush harder. Uncomfortable, she shifted on her feet. "Uh, hi," she replied, eyes darting over to the basket he held. Oh God, were those condoms inside of it with the aspirin and the band-aids? They were!  _Large?_  she thought, trying not to notice the size and failing miserably.  _Oh Jesus._  She looked up without thinking, and her eyes met his.

He blinked at her in confusion for a moment, then followed her gaze down to the basket. His eyes widened, and his gaze snapped back up to hers. He looked like someone had just jabbed him with a cattle prod. His cheeks tinged a rosy hue, his ears a deep pink. "Well, this is awkward."

Emma couldn't help it. She giggled. He blinked at her again, looking almost humiliated for a moment, then started to laugh himself.

"Killy?" a deep voice intoned from behind him. "Did you get the formula?" Professor Jones turned to peer over his shoulder. A tall, muscular man nearly as handsome as her professor stood nearby, wearing khaki pants and a navy button down shirt. He leaned over, placing a bottle of massage oil in the basket before he took it away. "Why didn't you get the formula?" He frowned at the sparse contents.

 _Oh God_ , Emma thought, looking from one to the other, taking in their familiarity with each other.  _He's gay_. It all made sense. The nickname. The way they stood so close to each other. The condoms and massage oil.  _It figures_ , she told herself with a mixture of disappointment and relief.

"You didn't answer my texts. I didn't remember which kind Miri took."

"Never mind," the other man huffed, selecting a container off the shelves nearby. "I'll get it," he grumbled, putting it in the shopping basket. "Elsa will murder me if I come home with the wrong kind. Then I'll  _never_  get laid."

"Liam," Professor Jones hissed.

"What? It's been almost four months-"

"Liam!"

"What?" He looked up with an irritated expression. "Oh," he said simply, when he caught sight of Emma, standing awkwardly in the middle of the aisle. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize a lady was present," he cleared his throat in embarrassment. "My apologies...?"

"Emma," she supplied, holding out her hand. "Emma Nolan."

"Liam Jones," he returned in kind, giving it a hearty shake. "Killian's brother."

 _Brother?_ Not a lover or spouse, then."Oh," she said aloud, remembering that Jefferson had mentioned a brother. She felt foolish. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Liam told her with a charming smile. He glanced at his brother. "She's pretty, Killy."

"Oh, um-" she began.

"She's not-" he stuttered.

"It's not like that," they finished together.

Their eyes met. They stared at each other. Emma bit her lip, uncomfortable. What the hell was going on?

Liam looked from his brother to Emma again, his expression heavily skeptical. "I'm going to go pay," he said, lifting the basket a little for emphasis. "I'll meet you back in the car," he told his brother. He turned to her again. "It was very nice to meet you, Emma. I hope Killian brings you around the house sometime."

"Jesus Christ, Liam," he groaned, as his brother retreated. His face and ears were impossibly red, and Emma couldn't blame him. She knew hers couldn't be much better. An extremely awkward silence settled between them, the muffled sounds of her roommates' antics from several aisles over a welcome distraction. "Um," he said at last, scratching the back of his neck with an index finger, "now that we both know more about my brother and his love life than we ever wanted to know, let me offer my deepest, sincerest apologies."

"It's okay," she mumbled.

He arched a brow. "Emma, if you wanted to transfer out of my class after this, I wouldn't blame you one bit." He paused. " _I_  want to transfer out of my own class after this." They both laughed, and the tension eased somewhat. "I really am sorry," he apologized again. "Liam, he has, er, relationships on the brain lately," he said with a crooked smile, "adjusting to fatherhood and all. I'm afraid it makes him, um, assume things-"

"So...you have a niece, then?" she interrupted, intent on avoiding any reference to Liam's embarrassingly correct intuition when it came to sensing her attraction to his brother. "Miri, was it?"

He nodded, looking proud. "He and Elsa-that's his girlfriend-let me babysit sometimes. Liam's, um, asked me to sit for them again next week, in fact. To surprise Elsa with a night off." He glanced back over his shoulder. "I should be going. Liam's waiting to drop me off at my place, and Elsa will worry if he's not back soon."

"Okay."

He looked at her with a searching expression. "I'll see you tomorrow?" he inquired tentatively. "Or will you be knocking down the door to the registrar's office tomorrow morning?"

"I'll be there," she agreed. "Victor would never let me hear the end of it if I transferred out, and there's no way in hell I'm ever telling him about this."

"No," he grinned, "I suppose not. Perhaps it's best that we pretend it never happened, ourselves."

" _Definitely_."

"All right, then, Miss Nolan. See you in the morning." He turned to leave the store, tossing her a small wave as he looked at her over his shoulder. Emma watched him retreat, inhaling deeply. She grasped the shelf next to her, hoping her knees wouldn't give out. What the fuck was  _that_ , even? What the hell was her life, that this kind of humiliation happened to her?

"Emma!" a voice interrupted her thoughts. "There you are!"

Jefferson stood behind her, flanked by Victor. "You ready to go?" the upperclassman asked. "You and Vic have to get up early, right?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Yeah, we do. Let's go home."

And it wasn't until the three roommates reached home a short while later that Emma realized she hadn't ever purchased her tampons after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Egads! What a long chapter! Hope you enjoy it!

Killian pried open the passenger door to Liam's black sedan, fuming with the backwash of humiliation and sexual frustration. He plunked into the seat and slammed the door shut after himself. "What the hell," he growled, "was  _that_? What the fuck is the matter with you, Liam?"

"Sorry," his brother apologized with a shrug, starting the car. "I didn't realize she was there."

"'Sorry' doesn't exactly erase that incident from her mind  _or_  mine," he pointed out with a glare.

"Look, Killy-"

He groaned. "For God's sake, Liam. I'm not five. Give it a rest already. I'm nearly thirty."

"Fine," his brother sighed, peering over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking space, " _Killian_. If it's any consolation, I doubt she will hold it against you." He waggled his eyebrows up and down.

Killian bristled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should ask her out on a date."

He inhaled sharply, choking a bit as he did so. "Liam, you have no idea what you're saying."

"No, but I know what I'm seeing. Ask her out, Killian."

"She's got a boyfriend. And she's too young for me."

Liam frowned. "She didn't look it," he mused. "Maybe it was the lighting," he admitted. "Boyfriend, you say?" He shook his head as he turned the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road. "Shame. Still, that never stopped you with Milah."

Killian eyed his brother sidelong. "Is my love life, or lack thereof, really so desperate that you, of all people, are advocating interfering in a relationship? I seem to remember a long speech about 'bad form' back in high school, when I romanced Milah away from that arsehole, Bobby Gold."

"Come on, Killian. I didn't understand how poorly he treated her, back then. Was it still bad form? Yes. There's no getting around that. But she was well rid of him. And you made her happy, Killian. I just...after everything that has happened, I have a different perspective, now." He shrugged. "A few years difference doesn't mean much in the end, if two people really care about each other. If you like this Emma, and you think she could be the one-"

Killian cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Liam, she's a student. _My_  student."

" _Oh_." A long silence followed, during which Liam glanced at him speculatively from time to time. "Well, that does complicate things beyond the usual," he finally said.

He stared at his brother in disbelief. "Thank you for your vote of confidence in being able to maintain a professional distance," he spluttered, embarrassed and indignant.

Liam's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. He glanced at Killian. "I know you, brother. I know how you think and what you believe with regard to destiny and stuff. You have a romantic's soul, and something like that isn't easily extinguished." He sighed. "But most of all, I know how hard you fall, and how deeply and utterly you love. It's something I didn't grasp until Elsa."

"Liam, sod off, all right?" he growled. "It isn't love. She's my student."

"Maybe," he conceded, "at least not yet. But I know what I saw back there, Killian."

"You're imagining things," he grumbled, insisting more because he wished it were true than because it carried any real conviction. "I happen to have a date tomorrow night with someone else."

Liam raised an eyebrow, eyeing him with skepticism. "So you say. But Killian?"

"What?" he asked tiredly.

"Don't get caught."

* * *

Killian arrived at Farrenton early on Friday morning, in part because he wanted to make up for his own tardiness on Wednesday (which, although it didn't make a difference in his students' minds, it made his own rest easier), but also in hopes of catching Emma's initial reaction when they saw each other again. He hadn't forgotten last night's humiliating incident, no matter what they had agreed to attempt, and he wanted to gauge whether the awkwardness between them was enough to push her to drop his class after all. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel as if she needed to bolt, just because his arsehole of a brother had taken advantage of Killian's daydreaming and left him holding his basket, while he shopped the store for items Killian was still doing his best not to remember. And then to add insult to grievous injury-

Suffice it to say, Killian hadn't forgotten his brother's words. Any of them. And though it would probably be best for all concerned if Emma did drop his class, he felt a little ill and anxious at the thought of her doing so.

When Emma finally rolled into the classroom just two minutes before class began, with Victor at her heels, Killian breathed a sigh of relief. Furtively wiping his sweating palms on the legs of his trousers, Killian stepped out from behind the podium and went to open his briefcase in preparation for class. He glanced up, scanning the classroom to make a mental note of which students were present. When he reached Emma, their gazes locked for a moment, and she flushed, shifting in her chair. Killian felt his own face grow hot. It wouldn't do for someone to notice their reaction to one another and leap to the wrong conclusion for the right reasons. He pivoted on his heel to face the blackboard, scrubbing at the nape of his neck self-consciously. But not quite before he noticed a shy smile creep across her face-and sensed an answering one slide across his own.

He was playing with fire. He knew it all too well. But he couldn't stop himself from drawing nearer, as close to the warmth as he dared. Even if it meant getting burned in the end as a result.

* * *

Killian Jones was bored. It was a strange phenomenon, given that he was at the concert of one of his favorite bands, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. But whereas he normally enjoyed the pulse of music so loud it made your teeth vibrate, even accepted the close press of bodies dancing with frenzied excitement, Killian found himself sneaking glances at his watch, his erstwhile date otherwise occupied by the show on stage. The sweat that beaded his skin, which normally heightened his libido and compelled him to find a dark corner with his date, did nothing for him tonight. There was nothing, not even the slightest spark with Tina that he might explore and attempt to ignite into something more.

Oh, they got on marvelously enough, and had loads in common. Ariel had been right about that. But Killian felt no pull, no connection with Tina. No chemistry. Not even when they had kissed on the steps outside the restaurant where they'd eaten dinner. To be perfectly honest, it had felt like kissing a relative. Affectionate, but wholly unappealing in any romantic sense.

They had both laughed afterward, Tina reaching the same conclusion as he, but Killian, ever the gentleman, had insisted they continue on to the concert together as friends. No sense in letting Ariel's tickets go to waste, he'd figured. Now, watching Tina dancing with a total stranger, he wondered if he wouldn't have been better off giving her both tickets and cutting out of the concert altogether. He could be home relaxing in front of the TV with a beer, maybe a glass of rum, and writing. The concert wasn't half as fun without someone to hold close, to dance and actively share it with. Someone like-

 _Damn you, Liam,_  he thought darkly. Rather than reinforcing Killian's resolve to maintain the necessary professional distance with Emma, his brother had practically encouraged him to pursue it. What the hell had ever happened to overprotective older brothers who tried to instill unwanted wisdom in little brothers?

Milah and her tragic death had happened, apparently.

Killian sighed, turning toward Tina to bid her farewell. Might as well call it a night, so far as he was concerned. But someone crashed into him as he moved, his balance faltering for a moment as something wet splattered across his front. Including his leather jacket. "Fuck," he growled, swiping hand across the leather to dispel the liquid.

"Oh, God! Professor Jones! I'm so sorry!"

Killian glanced up quickly at the familiar voice. Emma stood just behind the shoulder of an incensed-looking young man with scraggly brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. He precariously held two bottles of beer in each hand, fingers twined around the necks and rims, his glassy brown eyes boring into Killian with instant dislike. "Who the fuck are you?"he demanded. Even several inches away, Killian could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.

Killian arched an eyebrow. He turned his attention to Emma, who looked away with an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.  _I believe the lady just specified who I was, had you been sober enough to pay attention_ , he thought darkly, unwilling to embarrass Emma further by saying so. Instead, he spoke up, "Killian Jones. Professor of Literature and Poetry and Farrenton. And you are?'

"This is Neal," Emma interjected. "My boyfriend."

Killian opened his mouth to say that he was pleased to make Neal's acquaintance, just out of sheer habit, but he wasn't, really. He snapped his mouth shut. His eyes traveled down to the beers in Neal's hands, and he frowned.

"You know what? I don't care who he is," Neal sneered to Emma. "He made me spill my beer!" He glared at Killian again. "You're going to pay for these, you know!"

"And how are you going to make me do that?" Killian shouted over the crescendoing music. He watched Neal with disdain. "I do believe you're underage. You shouldn't be in possession of any beer at all."

"Oh, so what?" Neal shot back belligerently, with a roll of his eyes. "You're going to turn me in? Lighten up."

"Neal!" Emma hissed, a stricken look on her face. "Stop it! He's my professor!"  _I'll pay for the jacket,_  she mouthed over her boyfriend's shoulder. He waved a hand at her dismissively and gave a slight shake of his head.

Neal darted a glance back at Emma, then turned his attention back to Killian. His eyes narrowed as he studied Killian from head to toe, assessing him. " _You're_  Emma's professor?" he said suspiciously. He glanced at Emma again. "How come you didn't tell me about him?" he accused.

"What? I told you about him!"

"You didn't tell me he looked like  _that_!"

Killian bristled at his tone.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" she replied, her expression a mixture of confusion, anger, and humiliation.

"Oh, come on, Emma!" Neal began, "You can't tell me you don't want to fu-"

"Hello!" Tina's voice said brightly, stepping up beside Killian during a lull in the music, and managing to catch his hand in her own before it could swing through the air and connect with Neal's jaw. She squeezed it pointedly, and Killian winced a little at the amount of pressure she used. Their eyes met, and he nodded once, unclenching his hand. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Killian?"

"Emma, Neal...this is Tina Bell." He hesitated. "My date for the evening," he finished, with a flash of guilt that he shouldn't be feeling at all. But then, the jealousy that gnawed at his insides at the sight of Emma with Neal shouldn't exist, either. Perhaps most alarmingly, however, his overriding emotion wasn't either of these things, but rather a large measure of disgust. Jefferson had certainly been correct in his assessment of this creep. Emma deserved better. Far better. Never mind that it couldn't be himself.

Some of the anger deflated out of Neal as he eyed Tina up and down, checking her out. "Date, huh?" His brown eyes glittered with appreciation, lingering far longer than necessary on Tina's long legs and short leather skirt. Hurt and jealousy flashed across Emma's face as her boyfriend ogled Killian's date, but her expression became carefully blank a moment later.

Killian's nostrils flared, and he clenched his teeth together. He couldn't believe the sodding nerve Neal had, disrespecting Emma like he did. He was completely unworthy of her. If she had been Killian's, he'd never take his eyes off her, never have eyes for anyone else. Incensed at the insult to Emma, and irritated by Neal's lecherous attitude toward Tina, Killian felt the muscles in his arm tense as his hand balled into a fist again. He felt Tina's hand squeeze him again. Hard.

"Yes," Killian answered the other man shortly.

Neal shook his head with regret, his eyes on Tina's breasts. He licked his lips, and Killian nearly slapped him, Tina's not-so-subtle measures to rein in his temper, aside. "Well, we should get going, babe," Neal said, finally looking back at his girlfriend, "if we ever want to find Tamara and Greg again in this crowd." He set off without so much as a goodbye, leaving Emma to stutter an apology on his behalf.

Murmuring that it had been a pleasure to meet Emma, Tina slipped back into the crowd, leaving them alone. Or as alone as they could get in a crowd so large. "Um," Emma began, "I'll see you on Monday, then."

"Just a moment," he said, snagging her by the arm as she tried to retreat. She stared at him with wide green eyes. "Emma, who is driving you home tonight?"

She blinked. "I-I'm driving, I guess. Or Greg or Tamara."

He frowned, leaning over her, his head bent down until their faces were just inches apart. Resisting the impulse to kiss her, he sniffed her breath. "No, I don't think you should drive, either."

"I'll be fine in a couple of hours," she insisted. "You-you're not going to rat us out for drinking, are you?"

"That's an issue quite a bit further down my list of concerns right now," he told her sincerely. "I don't think you should drive, just to be safe. And I damn well don't think you should get in a car if Neal or his friends are driving," he spat. "Because he will certainly  _not_  be all right to drive for some time, and if his friends are anything like him, neither will they."

"Look, I know he made a bad impression; he's had too much to drink, yes. But he's not usually like this. We'll be fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "Listen, Emma, I know it's hardly my place to offer any sort of advice pertaining to Neal, but a woman should never have to make excuses for her man, hmm? That's usually not a good sign."

She opened her mouth to argue with him, offer more excuses, he had no doubt, and he raised an eyebrow. "Why does everyone seem to dislike Neal so much?" she said instead.

"Given the way he just behaved, I can't imagine," Killian said mildly. Her expression became troubled. "Look, Emma...just promise me you won't get into a car with him or his friends, all right?" Killian dug into the pockets of his leather coat and retrieved a business card and a pen. He scrawled his cell number on across the back of the card. "If you need a ride, call. Or if that's too awkward for you, at least ring up Jefferson or Victor to pick you up."

"What about your date?" She glanced at Tina.

"Fizzled out early," he admitted. "We're just friends. She brought her own car, anyway." He gazed down at her beseechingly. "Please. I need to know you'll be safe."  _I need to know you won't end up like Milah,_  he thought, his heart constricting with grief.

She pulled her arm away and pocketed the card with a frown. "I gotta go," she mumbled.

Killian watched her disappear into the crowd with a frown of his own. Knots of dread cinched inside his stomach. Neal was bad news, he could feel it. But he could feel the sense of wrongness, of impending doom even more. It was the same sense he'd felt before Milah died, though he'd been all the way across town at the time, ignorant of her accident. Killian hadn't been able to do anything to avert that disaster, to save her. And now it looked as if he hadn't made a difference with Emma, either.

But he wouldn't leave. Couldn't. Not if there was the slightest chance that she might need him. So Killian stayed put where he was.

And worried.

* * *

The concert was nearly over when his phone buzzed in his hip pocket of his jeans. His fingers fumbled to retrieve the phone, heart thumping erratically. Killian peered at the screen. Unknown caller. He swallowed and pressed 'talk'. "Hello?" he said, plugging a finger in his other ear, to muffle some of the noise surrounding him.

"Can I still get that ride?" Emma inquired, audibly upset. Heaven above, Killian thought as she sniffed through the phone, was she crying? Had that bastard made her  _cry_? "Jefferson's phone went straight to voicemail," she babbled, "and Victor isn't answering his."

"Of course," he told her. "Where are you at?"

"Um, just meet me at the south entrance," she decided.

"Ten minutes," he promised her. "See you then." He ended the call, staring at the screen of his phone in relief. Shoving the cell back into his pocket, Killian approached Tina, who was dancing with a tall, red-haired man. Killian ignored the glare shot his way and pulled Tina aside. "Listen, Emma needs a ride," he told her over the music. "I'll see you around, aye?"

"Of course." She hugged him tightly. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Bye Killian!" She waved at him merrily and then turned back to her glowering suitor.

Relieved, Killian excused himself with haste and threaded his way through the sea of people, feeling rather like a fish trying to swim upstream. Just over ten minutes later, he entered the lobby near the south entrance of the building and scanned the area for Emma. She sat slumped against a wall near the doors, her red coat a stark contrast to the whiteness of the walls. "Ready?" he asked her, removing the keys from his leather jacket.

"Yeah."

Killian opened the door and ushered her through. She shot him a confused look as she passed by, and his grip on the door tightened. He followed behind her until they reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps."My car is this way," he said, briefly placing a hand on her shoulder to steer her in the right direction. She looked at him in mild surprise, and Killian flushed, glad that it was dark enough to disguise his embarrassment a bit.

He led her through the parking lot in silence, reminding himself to stay on his best behavior. They reached the car a few minutes later, and Killian pressed the button on his key ring to unlock its doors. He reached around her as she moved toward the passenger side of the vehicle, opening the door for her. Emma blinked at him in surprise, immobile for a moment. Killian ground his teeth together at the implications of her reaction. This was twice now that she had been caught off guard by basic gentlemanly manners.

Silently cursing Neal with every swear word in the book, plus a few made up additions, he waited for Emma to seat herself in the passenger seat. He closed the door and rounded the car to the driver's side. He opened the door and put the key in the ignition. Pulling the door shut after himself, he buckled the seat belt across his lap and chest. Glancing over at Emma, he noted with approval that she had already buckled herself. He started the car.

"Thank you," she said quietly, breaking the silence.

"Not a problem," he told her, looking over his shoulder as he backed the car out of the parking space. "It's not the first time I've played designated driver to a student." He paused. "Admittedly, none of them have ever been female, but..." He shrugged.

She smiled slightly. "Worried about starting rumors?"

"And jealous boyfriends, yes."

She winced. "I'm really sorry about Neal."

"Neal's the one who should be sorry for treating you so poorly," he stated with more force than he'd intended.

"Yeah, well...we had a fight." She sighed. "I'm not sure where this leaves us." He saw her rub her forehead, out of the corner of his eye. "I guess we'll figure that out when he's sober again.

Killian said nothing, turning out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Though he would be overjoyed and relieved if Emma broke up with Neal, he wasn't going to overtly encourage it, either. Not unless he was either asked to (and why would he be?), or Emma indicated some type of more serious circumstances that necessitated his involvement.

He'd made his distaste for Neal clear enough already.

"So why me?"

"Beg your pardon?" he blinked, his eyes still focused on the road ahead.

"Why change your, um, rule? For me?"

He shrugged. "It's never been a rule, exactly. If one of my other female students needed a ride, rather than drive intoxicated, I'd give her one. But I don't happen to spend a lot of time in their company, so-" He trained off. "Mostly, I've given rides to Jefferson, or some of Liam's other interns. No one I've ever taught."

"Until now."

"Aye." He paused. "It's more important to get you home safely than dealing with a few rumors if anyone see us together." He sighed, gripping the steering wheel more tightly. He'd dealt with worse, back when he'd had to get that restraining order in his first year teaching at Farrenton.

Killian drove in silence after that, and it wasn't until he helped her out of the car and walked her up to the front porch of her row house that either of them spoke again. "Dammit!" she said suddenly, keys dangling from her hand, staring at the front door. "Of all the nights for Victor to get his freak on!"

He glanced the front door. A tie was knotted to the handle. He stepped closer and picked up the long end, dangling free, and chuckled. "Good for him."

"What?"

Killian scratched at the scruff that downed his cheek, smiling. "I recognize this tie. It's not Victor in there having fun, darling."

"Are you  _kidding_  me?" she burst out.

"Afraid not, darling."

"Now what do I do? His phone is turned off, going straight to voicemail. Should I knock?"

"You could try," he shrugged. "But consider the consequences if you do."

An uncomfortable look flitted across her face. "Yeah.  _No_ ," she decided abruptly. "I'll just...leave him a text. He'll get it when he's...done."

"That might be quite some time," he pointed out. "Especially since it's, ah, been a while, from what I've gathered in passing conversation."

"Oh God," she groaned. "Just stop." He chuckled, plunking himself down on the steps leading up to the porch. "What are you doing?" she inquired with a puzzled expression.

"Well, I'm not about to leave you sitting alone in the dark," he pointed out, "especially at this hour."

"It's not completely dark," she argued. "There's the porch light." He glanced at the dim light skeptically, and she settled down on the steps next to him with a wry smile.

Killian became intensely aware just how close she was, forced to closer quarters with him by the railing on either side of the narrow steps. He licked his lips, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're really into this whole gentleman thing, aren't you?"

"Is that a problem?"

Emma shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not used to it."

"You should be."

Her green gaze slid over to his. Killian held it for a moment. _You deserve so much better_ , he told her silently. Killian sensed, rather than saw, the flush of her cheeks as she looked away. He smiled, pleased to have such an effect on her, inappropriate though it might be. Appropriate had gone out the window quite some time ago. And Killian found that he didn't altogether care if it had.

"So what does a Professor of Literature and Poetry-" She used air quotes to emphasize the title with smile. Killian groaned inwardly, smiling back. "-do for fun, normally? Besides babysit his niece, wear leather jackets, and attend rock concerts?"

He grinned. "Read."

"That figures," she agreed. "What else?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "Same as most other chaps, I suppose. Watch sports. Visit the bar on occasion. Sometimes a museum. I'm a rather boring person, when you get to know me."

"I doubt that," she snorted.

He smirked at her. "Do you?" He leaned in close, instincts overriding his good sense.

She locked gazes with him again. " Yeah."

They stared at each other for several heartbeats, Killian's breathing becoming ragged, until he finally looked away. "Well," he cleared his throat, "perhaps I travel a bit now and then, as well."

"Where to?"

"In the summer? Back home to Ireland a few times. During the school year, it's mostly places I can drive to over the weekend. Manhattan, Boston, and the like. Depends on my mood."

"Do you go to any of the Broadway shows when you visit Manhattan?"

"Sometimes."

"Hmm. What's your favorite musical?"

He considered the question. "Currently running or overall?"

"Currently running."

"Rock of Ages," he winked at her.

"Come on!"

"It is."

"No, it's not!" she huffed. "You're lying. See, I have this thing when I can sense lies. Victor and Jefferson call it my superpower." She rolled her eyes. "And you, my friend, are lying through your teeth."

"Been paying a lot of attention to my mouth, have you, to notice my teeth?" he deflected with the irreverent flirting that had long ago become habit to push people away.

She rolled her eyes. "Please."

"Wicked."

"Still not the truth."

He sighed. "Perhaps I don't like to say."

"Obviously."

"How about this? I'll tell you mine, darling, of you tell me yours," he said. Unfairly so, since he already had a good idea what hers might be, after hearing her hum it in the drug store, just before he'd noticed her.

"It must be really embarrassing," she decided. "Matilda?" she wondered with a cheeky grin.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "God, no!"

She poked him playfully. "Come on, it can't be that bad!"

"Bridges of Madison County," he answered hoarsely, mesmerized by the sway of her hair against her shoulders as a breeze picked up.

She blinked. "Your favorite musical is about adultery?"

He frowned, snapping back to attention. "Well, I don't condone it, if that's what you're thinking."

"No," she said hastily. "I just...I don't understand. I thought the book was awful when Ashley lent it to me. I couldn't get through it."

"Sentimental reasons, in part," he explained. She arched an eyebrow, but Killian refused to elaborate. "And because sometimes love just doesn't work out."

"Love?" she echoed, wrinkling her nose. "More like selfishness."

"Some of both," he conceded, "But the adultery of the story aside, not all love works out or is meant to be."

"Things happen that we can't control," she murmured, watching him sideways. Her green eyes radiated with compassion.

"Yes."

She patted him on the arm. Killian's breath became unsteady, and a jolt of electricity shot through him at the gentle press of her fingers. "I know something about that."

"Oh?" he breathed, as she shifted and her shoulder brushed against his. She hadn't moved her hand.  _Why_  hadn't she moved her hand? he thought feverishly. His breath hitched, and when he spoke, it was with an unsteady voice. "How so? Have you ever been in love?"

"I meant about...things being out of our control," she said quietly, sadness sparking in her eyes. Killian resisted the urge to pull her close and kiss away her sadness. The fact that she was touching him at all- _still_ -was surreal enough. And inappropriate. And problematic.

And Killian didn't give a single fuck about it right now.

She drew her hand away, frowning down at his arm. Killian followed her gaze. The dark ink of his tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his jacket, and before he could even think to stop her, she had pushed the sleeve up to reveal it in more detail. "Who's Milah, on the tattoo?"

"Someone from long ago," he hedged in a flat tone, startled into reasserting all the walls and boundaries that had crumbled moments before. He drew his arm away, sliding sleeve of his jacket back down.

"Where is she?"

"She's gone."

"It was a car accident, wasn't it?" she said softly. "That's why it was so important to you that I didn't drive or go back with Neal and his friends. Someone got drunk and took her from you."

Killian felt the muscles in his jaw tense up at just how accurately she'd guessed.

"And she's the reason you like that musical," Emma continued. "The book was her favorite, wasn't it?"

"It was." He inhaled with a shudder. It had been years since he had spoken of Milah to anyone but Liam or Eric, and yet the words fairly tumbled out of his mouth with Emma. "She-we were engaged." Emma's expression became stricken. "Only two months, but-"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, patting his arm again. There was no pity in the action, only empathy. Something for which Killian was profoundly grateful. He couldn't have stood it if she had pitied him, like everyone else did when they found out.

"Thank you," he nodded shortly. "It was a long time ago, actually." He scrubbed at the stubble on his chin.

"But it's not the sort of thing you ever get over," she said, practically reading his mind. "You just get better at learning to live with the pain. It becomes part of who you are. The new you." _Because you are never the same after that_ , her green eyes whispered to him.

 _And there is no going back_ , he agreed silently, watching her. His fingers twitched, itching to brush the hair back from her face and kiss her, like a real date. How extraordinary that sitting with her on this porch felt more like a genuine date to him than dinner and a concert with Tina had.

Her hand slipped away again, and he exhaled slowly, trying to rein his urges in and reassert control over his feelings. "So, um, has the reading been better for you?" he asked, returning to a safer topic, one that would remind him of his proper place in her life. The boundaries had already blurred and been crossed over quite a few times tonight. He was her professor, and he needed to act like it.

"Come on, it's the weekend," she groaned.

He grinned. "Point taken." Killian bit his lip absently as he searched for a new topic. "So. What does Emma Nolan like to do for fun?"

"Same as you, in some ways," she said with a dismissive sweep of her hand. "Sports. Theater. Musicals. Concerts. Reading. But fiction, mostly."

"I take it no poetry, then?" he laughed.

"Um," she said with a guilty look.

"That's all right," he chuckled. "I suppose it's not everyone's cup of tea." He gestured up at the stars. "I find poetry's rather like stargazing. At first, you can't see anything, and nothing makes sense whatsoever. But then, you develop a familiarity with the night sky, and you begin to pick a few things out. Eventually, there's a rapport, and it becomes...magical. A thing of beauty."

"That's...that's...it's, um, I've never heard anything like that before," she faltered. Killian glanced over at her. "I wish I could see it that way," she added with a wistful expression, looking up at the stars.

He smiled, opening his mouth to reply, when he heard a car door slam. They both jumped. Chuckling, they cast each other sheepish smiles. "Sounds like your other roommate is home," he said. "I'd imagine he's better equipped to handle the current situation."

"Infinitely," she agreed with a relieved hitch to her voice.

"Emma?" Victor called out through the darkness. "Professor Jones?" he said in a startled voice. "What are you doing here?"

"He gave me a ride home," Emma answered, standing up as Victor walked toward them. Killian rose as well. "We ran into each other at the concert. Neal got drunk, and we had a fight."

"That fucking bastard," he growled. "I'll kick his ass."

"And neither of you roommates were answering your phones," she continued pointedly, "so Professor Jones chauffeured me home. Where the hell have you been?"

"With Ruby, that girl from poetry class. We ran into each other at the Breen's," he answered absently. "What's going on? Why are you out here? Did you lock yourself out?"

Killian and Emma exchanged a look.

"Not exactly," she murmured as Victor shoved past them, footsteps echoing loudly on the porch.

"That son of a bitch!"

Emma felt inclined to agree until she realized that Victor said it with relief and admiration rather than annoyance.

"It's about bloody time," Killian agreed.

"I can't believe you two!" she complained.

"We're men," Killian pointed out. "How else should we react?"

"You could at least gloat and celebrate when I'm out of earshot," she grumped.

"Calm down, I'll take care of this," Victor reassured her with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "I'll be back shortly." He disappeared into the townhouse.

Killian looked at Emma. She smiled at him uncertainly. "Thanks for the ride," she told him again. "And for sitting with me."

He nodded, placing his hands inside his jacket pockets. It was far too tempting to touch her, to do things that would only end in disaster for them both. But he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. "Of course," he managed, swallowing back the reply that it had all been his pleasure. "If you, um, need a ride again sometime, you have the number."

"Oh." A shy expression settled on her face. "Um. I'll put it in my phone, then. Just in case."

"Probably a good idea," he agreed in a soft voice, gazing down into her eyes with longing. "So you don't lose it."

"That would be bad," she murmured, "wouldn't it?"

"Aye."

She took a step forward, and Killian's heart thumped with fear and desire. "I'd better go," he withdrew suddenly, backing up. "Victor should return shortly."

"Right."

"So, um, I'll be going," he said awkwardly.

"Okay."

They stared at each other for a moment longer, until the front door opened again.

"They're asleep," Victor informed his roommate. "Come on in."

Killian waved at them. "I'll see you both in class on Monday. Have a good weekend. " He walked back to his car and unlocked it, glancing back at the townhouse. Emma had already gone inside.

 _What the hell am I going to do?_  he wondered as he pulled the door shut and buckled up. He started the car and back out of the parking space. He couldn't seem to stop it. All the teasing and flirting simply happened before he knew what he was even about.

 _I have to do something,_  he thought.  _I need an outlet. Some way in which I can pour out my feelings without risking my job._

Writing was the obvious answer, and yet the last time that he had written anything, it had been about Emma. Which only made the situation worse. Perhaps Liam was right. Killian fell too hard, felt too deeply. No wonder his responses to Emma were so automatic, so uncontrolled. Was Liam right about the other things as well? He reviewed the grudging conversation he had had with his brother, and his breath caught in his throat as his brother's words echoed in his head:  _I know what I'm seeing,_  he'd said. Then, later,  _I know what I saw back there._ The entire conversation on the porch, with all its words, looks, and touches took on an entirely new meaning as the pieces fell into place.

Emma was attracted to him, too.

It seemed almost too much to hope for. And it was quite a frightening thing to contemplate, besides. No matter how Emma felt, whether his attraction to her was returned or not, he couldn't act on it. Not overtly. He'd lose his job. And Killian loved his job. Loved Farrenton, and the friends he had made here.

No, if he chose to act on these feelings, he would have to be discreet. Just because he felt something for Emma, that didn't mean that she ever had to know. And really, it was better that she didn't. He could write for an outlet, perhaps send her the products of his efforts anonymously. He'd show her what it was to be cherished and adored by someone, to be treated properly and appreciated.

He felt relieved, once he'd made the decision, like a weight had been removed from his shoulders. Rather than fight his feelings, this attraction, he could embrace them-at least to some extent. And perhaps it would inspire Emma to dump Neal and choose someone better next time. Even if it wasn't him.

Since it could never be him.

Killian returned to his apartment a short while after that, whistling softly to himself as he unlocked the door. He felt lighter, energized even, though it was nearly two in the morning. He prepared for bed as usual, and fell asleep moments after his head hit the pillow. He slumbered restfully for the first time in ages, without nightmares about Milah's accident, and awoke the next morning feeling hopeful, even downright chipper.

He did little else but write for the rest of the weekend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, that's the end of it. In the next chapter, Emma will get her first anonymous note. Until next time, dearies!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here we are with the next installment at last! Thank you to everyone for your patience, as well as all the enthusiasm you have shown for this fic on Tumblr. This is my favorite multichapter to write, so it makes me very happy to see that other people like it so much.
> 
> As noted previously, any poems not credited by title and author within the chapter are written by me.
> 
> EDITED: Okay, so I didn't quite get the format of the poem exactly the way I wrote it, but it's close. I couldn't get the file to save with some indents that I had, but at least every line of the poem isn't its own paragraph, now!

The heady smell of bacon and pancakes woke Emma the next morning, but she ignored her protesting stomach and she rolled over in her bed. Just a while longer, she decided. Weekends were made for sleeping in. Smiling to herself, she snuggled further into the warm depths of her bed and tried to recapture the lovely dream she'd had about Professor Jones-

Her eyes flew open. Sunlight filtered through the gauzy blue curtains of the window opposite of her, but Emma felt little appreciation for it. Throwing back the covers, she bolted out of bed and darted toward the red winter coat folded over the back of her desk chair. Rifling through the pockets in a frenzy, her hand enclosed around the thin card, and she pulled it out with a yank. Eying the evidence with horror, she groaned. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Oh God."

It hadn't been a dream at all. Professor Jones had indeed driven her home last night. Which meant that she, Emma Nolan, had made a right ass out of herself. Crumpling up the business card with his cell number scrawled across the back, she tossed in the wastebasket beside her desk. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Emma?" she whispered, sitting down hard on the corner of her bed. She hunched over, clutching her head between her hands. "You flirted with your professor," she moaned. Not just flirted. Pawed, practically, while the poor man had just tried to make simple conversation with her. "Pathetic," she shook her head. She wasn't any better than the slathering horde of girls from her poetry class at all.

What the hell was she going to do now?

Taking a deep breath, Emma decided that nothing was going to be solved on an empty stomach. She showered in a daze, only half-aware of what she was doing, and probably washed her hair one too many times. Wrapping herself in a soft blue towel afterward, Emma blew her hair dry, still mulling over the embarrassing problem of her own behavior. She dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans and a plaid shirt that she had selected at random, and wandered out of her room at last, hoping Victor had left her some bacon this time.

She halted in her tracks as she turned the corner into the living room and neared the little kitchen. A tall wavy-haired blonde, clad in nothing more than one of Jefferson's old t-shirts and a pair of may-as-well-not-even-be-there-at-all shorts, stood plastered against the partially visible form of her roommate, hell-bent, it seemed, on suffocating them both. Emma stared in morbid fascination for a moment before she felt a rush of profound embarrassment and cleared her throat pointedly. And loudly. Very loudly.

"Emma!" Jefferson exclaimed, his eyes a little wild as he pulled away from the blonde suddenly. His face was flushed, and his hair attractively askew, as he faced her, wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and not a stitch more. His guest frowned, wrapping one territorial arm around Jefferson's waist, and lifting one eyebrow in silent challenge to Emma.

 _Good grief_ , Emma thought. She managed to refrain from rolling her eyes in reply, but only just. And only out of respect for her roommate. It was Jefferson's business who he wanted to spend his time with, but she hoped for his sake that this one didn't stick. This girl was awfully territorial for someone who had spent a single night with Jefferson.

"I, ah, thought you were going to spend the night at Neal's," her roommate said awkwardly.

"We had a fight," she replied shortly. "I got a ride home."

"Ah." There was another short moment of uncomfortable silence as Jefferson processed this. "Oh, um, this is Mindy," he said, finally introducing the human barnacle at his side. "Mindy, this is my roommate, Emma."

"Hello," she greeted Mindy. The blonde nodded at her and mumbled something resembling a greeting in return.

"So...should I double the batch of pancakes?" Jefferson asked, glancing from Emma to Mindy. His expression was perturbed.

"And the bacon, too," she nodded.

"Better triple the bacon," Victor said, strolling up. His hair was still damp from the shower, but it was styled nonetheless, and Emma caught a whiff of cologne as he walked past, dressed in a pale blue button down shirt and khaki pants. "I'm Victor, by the way," he greeted Mindy. She shook his hand with mild enthusiasm, flashing him a smile.

"What are you doing all dressed up?" Emma asked, refusing to dwell on the stark difference between Mindy's response to Victor and that of herself.

"I invited Ruby and her brother for breakfast," he informed them, opening the fridge.

Emma exchanged a look with Jefferson. She hadn't given it much thought last night, being preoccupied with other concerns, but it was quite unlike Victor not to make the moves on a girl within hours of meeting her. That he had neither spent the night at her place, nor she at his, would normally mean that he had been rejected. But if he'd invited her and this brother for breakfast, either he had decided that he wasn't interested in anything more than friendship with her after all, or something else was going on here. Something serious enough to merit the attempt to get in this brother's good graces.

"She has a brother?" Emma finally said, while Jefferson set to work doubling the batch of pancake batter.

"Yeah. He's in our poetry class, too," Victor said absently, pouring a glass of orange juice. He glanced at Mindy. "Would you like some?" he offered. Shrugging when she declined, he poured an extra glass and handed it to Emma, anticipating her request without a word.

"Thanks," she said, after taking a sip. She sat down at the table with a frown. "Wait, her brother is in our class? Are they in the same year, or something?"

Her roommate slid into a chair next to her. "Yeah. Twins."

"Oh." Emma racked her brain, trying to recall another Lucas in their class, but gave up after a few minutes. She honestly hadn't been paying much attention to anyone else during attendance, the first couple of classes. She'd been far too busy sneaking glances at her professor, and then trying to convince herself that some noise or movement had prompted her to look in his direction.  _Dammit,_  she thought, her worries about the impact of her behavior with Professor Jones last night renewed, _a little alcohol and being on the rebound are a really shitty combination._

Rebound? That gave her pause. Had she already decided to break up with him? It seemed she had, at least subconsciously. And he had been every bit the giant asshole that Victor and Jefferson had warned her about for months. Sure, Neal had been drinking-too much, even-but didn't alcohol tend to lower inhibitions? Had she finally seen the real Neal Cassidy last night? The thought disturbed her.

 _A woman should never have to make excuses for her man_ , Professor Jones's voice whispered in her head.

And she had been making a lot of excuses for Neal lately, she realized. It hadn't been that way in the beginning. Had something changed with him, or between the both of them as a couple, or had Neal just grown complacent enough to take her for granted? The last thought made her ill, because it carried with it the implication that Neal believed she was so weak that she'd stay with him no matter how shitty he behaved. And it rankled with her just a little, too, because Emma suspected she'd blinded herself to his faults and therefore given him reason to think that of her.

Neal didn't see the real her anymore than she'd let herself see the real him.

 _I need to talk to him,_  she thought with reluctance. It was the last thing that she wanted to do, particularly after the scene that they had made at the concert during their fight. Emma had a feeling their talk would result in messy breakup, and thus another ugly scene. Emma just wasn't ready to deal with that at the moment. She had much bigger problems to worry about. Such as the fact that she had hit on her own professor. Thank God he'd been too much of a gentleman to take advantage of that. How could she ever face him again?

The doorbell rang, startling her from her thoughts.

"That'd be them," Victor said lightly, rising from the table to answer the door. "Jeff, go put on a shirt or something, would you?" he called over his shoulder.

Surrendering the spatula to Emma, Jefferson sauntered off to his room to find a shirt. Feeling awkward, Emma joined Mindy by the stove to check on the pancake that was cooking on the griddle. She felt Mindy's eyes on her while she flipped the pancake , and offered the other woman a polite smile. Listening dimly to Victor greeting his guests at the front door, Emma tried to think of something to say to Jefferson's...well...whatever she was to him, that wouldn't sound completely awkward or rude.

"So, um, how well do you and Jefferson know each other?" she finally asked. Mindy raised one perfectly plucked white-blonde eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between smug and skeptical. "I mean," Emma emphasized, trying to clarify, "do you take classes together or something?"

"No."

Emma removed the pancake from the griddle and placed it on top of the stack that Jefferson had already started. She spread some butter over the top, then poured more batter onto the griddle. If Mindy had been just a little more friendly, Emma might have pressed for more details about how she did know him, but given the unfriendly vibe Mindy radiated toward her, she decided it was probably better to leave well enough alone.

"We met at Breen's."

Emma glanced over at her, surprised at this bit of voluntary information. Perhaps she'd misjudged Mindy. Maybe she was simply shy, and didn't know how to do small talk. Emma excelled at small talk. It was the serious stuff, the topics that revealed something about herself to another person-or they to her-that she had difficulty with. Damn Walsh and his fuckery. And now, after last night, it seemed that the past was repeating itself yet again with Neal.

But whatever else Mindy might or might not have shared, Victor's appearance in the kitchen, flanked by his guests, quashed any possibility of hearing about it. Jefferson re-emerged just as Victor introduced his guests to Mindy (who offered them a small wave), and Emma relinquished the spatula and its accompanying duties to her roommate, listening with half an ear while Jefferson introduced himself and chatted with Ruby and her brother for a few moments.

"Hey," Victor murmured in her ear, "you doing okay?"

Blinking at him, Emma managed a nod. "Sure. I'm fine," she lied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Victor raised an eyebrow, eyeing her with heavy skepticism. "We both know why," he murmured as everyone else burst into laughter at some joke Jefferson had cracked. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," he said, hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her into a brief side hug, "but just say the word and I'll kick his ass. So will Jeff. No questions asked."

"Thanks," she smiled, "I'll remember that."

"Do," he nodded as Ruby and her brother turned toward them expectantly. "Guys, this is my other roommate, Emma Nolan. You may recognize her from our class with Professor Jones. Emma, this is Ruby Lucas and her brother, Graham Humbert."

"Hi," she said, shaking each of their hands in turn. She studied them for a moment, taking in the slightly wavy, cherry-streaked dark brown of Ruby's hair and the lighter, curling brown of her brother's. But it was far from the only contrast between them. Dark eyeliner framed Ruby's deep green eyes in contrast to Graham's blue ones, her lips fuller and her chin rounder than Graham's narrower mouth and scruff-covered angular jaw line. Logically, Emma knew that siblings, even fraternal twins, could be as dissimilar to each other as strangers, but she found that she'd been expecting  _some_  familial resemblance.

"Hello," they greeted her.

She blinked. "Victor said you were twins?"

Something about her expression must have indicated how confused she was, because they glanced at each other knowingly, then chuckled.

"It's the accents, isn't it?" Ruby smiled. "No one believes us when they hear us speak."

"Well, and the different last names," she admitted.

"Our parents had a nasty divorce when we were rather young," Graham explained, his Irish accent reminding her of a certain other very handsome Irishman with dark hair and impossibly blue eyes, "and in the interests of saving us the trauma of an even nastier custody battle, they each took one of us to raise. Ruby stayed with our mum here in the States, and our da took me back to Ireland."

"Like  _The Parent Trap,_ " Ruby said lightly, "except we knew about each other and visited as often as we could."

"And our parents had less than a snowball's chance in hell of reconciling," Graham snickered.

"Unfortunately true," Ruby murmured with a slight smile of her own. "But on the bright side, our Granny Lucas lives here in Farrenton, so we get to live with each other at her house while we're at school."

"Oh, you live off campus, too?" Jefferson interjected with an interested expression. "We should all hang out sometime." He paused, taking the bacon out of the fridge. "Well, in addition to right now."

Victor stumbled backwards, clutching at his heart in an exaggerated fashion. "Oh my God! Jefferson  _and_  Emma willing to be more sociable within the span of one week! It's the Second Coming of Christ!"

"Very funny," Emma said, playfully poking her roommate in the ribs. He smirked in reply.

"Don't worry, I hear pretty much the same thing from Ruby," Graham smiled at her. "She's always after me to join her at some club or party. Me, I'm perfectly happy at home with a book."

Ruby shook her head with a roll of her eyes. "I think we have our work cut out for us with these two, Victor."

"You know," he smirked, "I think you're absolutely right, Red."

* * *

Her cell phone started to ring, startling her awake. Emma reached for it blindly, groaning. Who the hell was calling her at this time of the morning, before her alarm even went off? Growling, Emma snatched the phone off the nightstand at last, punching the "Talk" button none too gracefully. "Hello?" she croaked, pushing hair out of her eyes. "This better be good."

"Some way to talk to your boyfriend," a familiar voice huffed.

Neal. Of-fucking-course. Who else would be so inconsiderate? Even her mother, chipper and very much an enthusiastic morning person, respected Emma's need to ease into the day slowly and never bothered her unnecessarily before she had a cup or five of some caffeinated beverage. But of course, Neal had never learned to do that. Or maybe he'd never cared enough to bother.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I still had one, after Friday," she snapped.

He groaned. "Oh, are you still pissed about that? I thought you'd cooled down by now."

"How could I, when we haven't talked at all since then?" she grated.

"Oh, come on, we've fought before," he said dismissively. "Of course we're still together. We're stronger than that, to let some fight come between us. And anyway, I was drunk off my ass on Friday-"

"Which would be why we fought," she reminded him. "Or were you too drunk to remember that? You embarrassed me in front of my professor, acting like a jealous asshole. For fuck's sake, you were drooling all over his date, right in front of me!"

"Now who's jealous?" he deflected with a snort.

Emma narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening on the phone she held to her ear. " _I_  didn't do anything wrong. You were the one acting like I was going to dump you for my professor!  _I_ , on the other hand, had every damn right to be jealous! I'm your girlfriend-or was! Now I don't even know anymore!"

"So what, we're breaking up, just because I acted like an idiot for one night?" he said in disbelief.

"No, we're breaking up because you don't seem to know or respect me at all," she told him angrily. "I'm only sorry it took this long to see how right my roommates were about you."

He laughed bitterly. "That's what this is about? Have those bastards managed to brainwash you against me at last?"

"Fuck off!" she growled. "Leave them out of it!"

"Oh, because they haven't interfered in our relationship at all?" he laughed cynically. "I'm not stupid, Em. They've never liked me. And maybe you're too blind to see it, but they're always trying to split us up, when they're not outright avoiding me. I can't believe you're defending that!"

"And I can't believe I ever fucking dated you," she spat. "We're through." She ended the call with one spiteful press of her thumb, fuming on behalf of her roommates. How dare he! How fucking  _dare_  he attack her roommates, her best friends, the people who had taken her in and made her part of their own little weird family?

The alarm on her phone went off, vibrating and ringing in her hands. Emma groaned, shutting it off.

Another fucking fantastic Monday.

* * *

Emma checked the time on her cell phone again. "This is ridiculous!" she huffed. "The line hasn't even moved for ten minutes! We're going to be late to class, if this keeps up!"

Victor frowned next to her, craning his neck to see over the heads of the people in front of them. "We may have to go to class without," he admitted reluctantly. "I just wish I knew what the hell was going on. Is a machine broken or something? And why the hell don't they have more than two cashiers working at a campus coffee shop on a Monday morning?"

"Speak for yourself," she groused at her roommate. "My morning has been shitty enough already. I'm getting my damn hot chocolate, even if I have to skip class to get it!"

"What exactly happened?" he asked as they finally inched forward in the line. "I heard you growling through the wall this morning. Did Neal call?"

"Yes.  _Before_  my alarm went off."

He grimaced. "No wonder you're in such a foul mood." She glared at him, and rather than attempt to backpedal, he shrugged matter-of-factly. "Facts are facts, Emma. You're not a morning person. Jeff and I figured that out real quick, living with you."

Emma sighed, annoyed. "Yeah, well, Neal never figured it out. Or a lot of other things, apparently. We broke up."

Her roommate blinked. "I see." And while he carefully schooled his features into an impassive expression, Emma didn't miss the way his eyes flickered with satisfaction and...was that relief?

"What? No party?" she said sarcastically. "We both know you never liked the guy. I thought there would at least be back flips or something."

"Of course not." The line moved forward again, and Emma followed her roommate forward a few steps. "I reserve my more impressive gymnastics for the bedroom," he waggled his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes. "You're a real pig, you know that?"

"That must explain my love for bacon," he said with a straight face.

"Yeah, for a cannibal pig."

"Cannibal pig?" a female voice laughed next to them. "Now this is a conversation I'm sorry I missed!"

Victor's face lit up instantly. "Ruby!"

"In the flesh," she smiled. Emma giggled, and Ruby shot her a confused look. "What?"

"Oh, just...that was perfect timing, Ruby. Absolutely perfect," she murmured, glancing at her roommate. He glared at her. "But probably not the best choice of words, given our previous conversation. Where's Graham?"

"Ahead of us in line," she chirped cheerfully. "Almost to the front, in fact. I saw you standing back here and came back to see if you wanted us to order you anything. Our treat!"

"I'll have a large black coffee," Victor said before Emma could protest, "and she'll have a gigantic hot chocolate with enough cinnamon to poison an army."

"Awesome. Be right back in a few!" The brunette zipped up the line again to find her brother.

"Are you sure we should let them do that?"

"It's just coffee, Emma-well, hot chocolate, in your case. It's not like we're letting them pay for our meals at a five star restaurant." He stepped out of the line and adjusted his backpack. "We'll buy for them next time."

"I guess," she sighed, following him out of the line. "And I do really need that hot chocolate, after that mess with Neal."

"Tell you what, I'll call Jeff, see what he's doing tonight. Maybe we can squash together on that couch with a few beers and have a movie night. Just us roommates."

"Do I get to pick the movie?"

"It's going to be  _Peter Pan_  again, isn't it?" he sighed.

"I like that movie!"

"What movie?" Graham inquired as Ruby gave Victor his coffee. "Hope there's enough cinnamon for you," he told Emma, handing over her own beverage.

" _Peter Pan_ ," Victor said with a shake of his head. "She's obsessed."

"A Disney fan?" Graham said, eyeing her as the four of them left the coffee shop and started their trek across campus to class. "I'm partial to  _The Jungle Book_ , myself."

"Yeah?"

"I've an affinity for animals," he shrugged.

"Graham's going to go to Vet school after college," Ruby interjected.

She glanced at him. "Really? Victor is pre-med."

His eyes lit up, and soon the boys were trading questions about prospective specialties and debating the pros and cons of opening one's own practice, or working as a member of a larger clinic and sharing more of the responsibilities and financial burdens. Ruby rolled her eyes and shot Emma a smile. "Sounds like they're enjoying themselves," she commented as they walked up the steps to the building where their class was located.

"Yeah," Emma agreed as Graham held the door open for them. "Hey, thanks for the drink."

"No problem." She slipped past her brother and Emma followed her inside. "We had fun on Saturday. Just our way of saying thanks."

Emma wasn't really certain what to say after that, but Ruby didn't seem to mind. She chatted easily about several small topics as they climbed the stairs to the second floor, and Emma listened with half an ear, growing more flustered with each step they took. Should she say something to Professor Jones after class? Apologize? Would that make it more awkward? Or was it better just to ignore the entire thing and hope it blew over rather quickly?

Her stomach lurched as they rounded a corner and came within view of their classroom. The door was propped open, as usual, and Professor Jones stood near the blackboard, scrawling a poem from their reading material across it. He looked up as they walked in, greeting them each in turn, and returned his attention to the blackboard. Emma settled in a chair near the door, as usual, and Victor took up his usual spot in the desk beside her, while Graham and Ruby occupied the seats in front of them.

"I hope you've done your reading," Professor Jones said, tossing the bit of chalk down into the tray beneath the blackboard. "We've a lot to go over today." He scratched his head, smearing chalk dust into his dark hair, and Emma suppressed a groan. Seriously? Could he make this any more difficult for her? Class hadn't even started yet!

He turned away from the blackboard and began leafing through a sheaf of papers on his podium. Emma watched him for a few minutes, noting how distracted his manner seemed. She bent over and retrieved a couple of pencils, placing them on top of her desk with her other materials. Turning the pages of her textbook, she watched him furtively, from beneath her lashes. Something felt off, and she puzzled over this for a few minutes more until she noticed that many of the tasks he preoccupied himself with were largely unnecessary. He was nervous about something. Emma felt certain of it, despite the fact that she had absolutely no logical reason for arriving at such a conclusion.

"Miss Nolan?" he said, interrupting her thoughts. Emma looked up to find him watching her with a slight smile as he closed the classroom door behind him. "Perhaps you'd care to start us off with a recitation of the first poem on our agenda for today?"

She blinked. "Oh. Sure." Emma glanced down at the book in front of her, thankful that she'd prepared her materials already. She read the poem in a clear, steady voice, feeling the heat of his gaze on her while she spoke. Every hair on the back of her neck prickled in response, and when she finished, Emma looked up, expecting questions regarding its meaning.

Biting his lower lip, Professor Jones swiped his tongue across the soft pink flesh as if to smooth out any marks left behind, and uncrossed his arms. "Thank you, Miss Nolan," he said after a moment. Turning away, he addressed the classroom as a whole. "Now, who would like to take first crack at interpreting this one?"

Emma leaned back in her chair, listening while one of her classmates offered an interpretation of the poem. Whatever was bothering Professor Jones, she decided, it didn't seem to be anything to do with her behavior on Friday night. And while she was in great measure relieved by this fact, as it made her life a whole lot easier and less awkward, there was a small sliver of herself that felt disappointed.

She buried the feeling. It was as much a dead end as her relationship with Neal had been.

* * *

Emma prowled the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinet doors at random. The day had been very trying for her, which made it the third such horrible day in a row. The week felt interminable to her; it was only  _Wednesday_ , and she had two more days to get through before the weekend. She'd been alternately dodging phone calls and ignoring texts from Neal all day. He seemed to be under the delusion that she might change her mind and take him back after all the shit he'd said about her roommates. No fucking way.

She finally located the stash of mini candy bars she'd insisted Jefferson purchase during his last trip to the store for groceries and tore open one of the wrappers. Popping the confection in her mouth, Emma chewed, feeling slightly better as the smooth, sugary taste of chocolate filled her mouth. Reaching into the bag for another one, the front door opened and Victor sauntered through, gently kicking the door shut behind him.

"Mail call!" he announced, tossing the stack of bills and grocery ads on kitchen table. He leafed through the stack, sorting everything into separate piles. "Here," he said, tossing a thin envelope at her.

Emma caught it with one hand, peering down at it with a frown. Her name and address were printed in a clear, bold typeset across the front of the envelope. Glancing up at the top left corner of the envelope, she saw that there was no return address. She flipped it over with a frown, but the back flap was blank, too. Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she pulled a hairpin out of her curls and slit the envelope open. Pulling out the single, folded sheet of paper that was inside, she opened the piece of paper and saw at a glance that its contents were typed, too.

As curious as she was cautious, Emma began to read, pausing in surprise after a few moments when she realized that it was a poem. Puzzled, she started from the beginning and began to re-read with a keener eye for anything that might identify its sender.

_I thought I knew sunlight,_   
_And the warmth of its rays;_   
_I thought my life measured out_   
_By the ticking of clocks and the passage of days._   
_I thought myself familiar with a spectrum of emotions_   
_By the mere beat of my heart and thrum of my blood._   
_I thought I was content, free from romantic notions,_   
_And cleverly cheating with the cards life dealt._

_Then:_   
_Everything..._   
_Changed._

_The greyness of my world faded to nothingness,_   
_When I saw the burnished wealth of your golden hair._   
_Time stood still, then gasped its last,_   
_Becoming reincarnated in the jade of your eyes._   
_New dimensions of feeling awoke in me,_   
_Brightening my heart's drab palette with your rosy blush._   
_Ensnared in the delicate bondage of hope and desperation,_   
_I concede, destined to lose this lover's game the moment you smiled._

_Meeting You:_   
_Brought Me..._   
_To Life._

"Emma?"

Blinking, she looked up to find her roommate staring at her with a frown. "Something wrong? You look as if that letter just bit you."

"I'm fine," she lied, folding it up.

"If you say so," he replied skeptically. "As I was saying, it's your night to cook dinner."

She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. "All right," she decided, tucking the piece of paper inside her pocket to puzzle over later, "how do you feel about fajitas?"

"You just made my day," Victor grinned in reply.

Emma thought of the poem in her pocket. Whatever the intent behind the sending of the poem, someone had thought of her. And although she might feel very differently later, when she had more time to analyze and reflect on it, for the moment it was nice to know someone cared.

Walking over to the fridge to retrieve the chicken she had thawed the night before, she smiled. "You know, Victor, I think I know the feeling."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An an new chapter is finally available! Thank you to everyone who has been patient with me in my updates. Writer's block in any form really sucks, and it doesn't help when I'm so exhausted these days that I can barely stay awake after I get my children to bed. Please bear with me for the time being. My life is crazy right now.

Friday was a very trying day for Killian. Everything seemed to go wrong. It began by sleeping through his alarm, thanks to a electric power failure that had apparently happened during the night (which meant no tea to help with his grogginess, much less breakfast), and realizing with a glance at his watch that he had exactly fifteen minutes to get dressed and out the door to pick up Lakeland. Irritated, Killian threw back the covers of his bed and hurried to the bathroom for a quick shower. Afterward, with a towel wrapped around his waist, Killian finger combed his wet hair and walked over to his closet, where he discovered an ink stain on his favorite shirt. Muttering under his breath, he selected another shirt at random and dressed quickly, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.

Deciding that he had just enough time left for a glass of juice, at the very least, Killian managed to pour some of the orange liquid without spilling it on himself, and perched on one of the stools at the kitchen bar. Sipping at the sweet liquid, he leafed through a large stack of papers that he had xeroxed the day before and began to organize them into separate piles:  _Survey of British and Irish Literature, Introduction to Myths and Fairy Tales, Post-Colonial Literature and Criticism_ , and  _Introduction to Poetry_.

"Bollocks!" he swore under his breath as his elbow hit the glass of juice, knocking it over. An orange lake rapidly formed on the counter, soaking his papers. Grinding his teeth together, Killian retrieved some kitchen towels and mopped up the mess as best as he could, but it was plain that some of the materials simply couldn't be saved.  _Hell and damnation,_  he thought, throwing the sodden mess into the kitchen trash can. He grabbed his keys from the ring by the door, checked to make certain that he had his wallet, and realized that his cell phone was missing.

Doubling back to his bedroom, Killian checked the pockets of all the clothes he'd discarded into the laundry hamper the day before, and then yanked open the drawers of his desk. Nothing. Peering into the crevice between the wall and his nightstand, Killian thought it was rather fitting that he couldn't even find his cell phone on the one morning he was sorely tempted to call in to work and take a sick day.

He left the apartment a few minutes later, discouraged and irritated, and without his phone.

Unlocking the door to his car, Killian tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat and sat down on the driver's side with a grunt. He shut the door and buckled himself into the seat, checking to make sure his mirrors were adjusted properly before he slid the key into the ignition and turned it.  _Click, click, click._ Killian growled in frustration and refrained from banging his head on the steering wheel, but only just. With his luck, he thought sourly, he would end up with a mild head injury. He turned the key again in the vain, desperate hope that his car might start.  _Click, click, click._

Eric would be driving  _him_  to work this morning, it seemed. If he could find his cell phone to make the call.

Ten harried minutes later, after Killian had overturned half of his apartment for the missing device, he resigned himself to doing the unthinkable: asking his neighbor across the hall to use the phone. Re-locking his apartment door, he reached over and knocked his neighbor's door with reluctance. "Killian!" his neighbor shrilled a moment later when she opened the door. Grey-blue eyes beamed at him from beneath brassy blonde bangs, and Killian smiled weakly in reply to the fuschia-lipped grin of his neighbor.

"Hey, Kels," he greeted her. "Listen, I've misplaced my mobile. Can I use your phone?"

"Sure!" she giggled, opening the door further. "Come on in! My cell's on the kitchen counter."

She waved him inside, and Killian entered the little apartment that was mirror to his own. Stepping over the one-eyed, crooked-tailed cat that lay smack dab in the middle of the kitchen entrance, Killian reached for the phone that was plugged into the wall, charging. He had to hand it to Kelsey: much as he felt uncomfortable with her heavy-handed flirting (it reminded him too much of his student stalker), he certainly couldn't fault her for a lack of heart.

"Eric," Killian said as his friend answered the phone. "My car's stalling, and I've lost my phone. Can you and Ariel pick me up this morning?" He listened for a moment to the muffled sound of Eric speaking with his wife. "Great," he said, when Eric said they'd swing by soon. "I'll meet you out in front of the building." He ended the call and laid the phone back down as Kelsey breezed into the kitchen, wearing a skimpy pair of shorts and a tank top that was tiny and thin enough to make her lack of bra quite apparent. It was a far cry from the jeans and sweater that she had been wearing when she'd answered the door.

"Whew! It's rather warm, don't you think?" She opened the fridge door and bent over, strategically showcasing her posterior. "Maybe we can cool off with a couple of beers."

Killian refrained from rolling his eyes-but only just. "It's the middle of January, Kels," he responded dryly, "and I'm late for work."

"Oh!" She closed the fridge with a disappointed frown. "I thought you had Friday mornings off."

"That was last semester." And Killian didn't drink on workdays anyway. Not that Kels had any reason to know that. He stepped over the cat again on his way to the door. "I've really got to go."

Kels followed at his heels. "But I think something's wrong with the heater-"

"Call the Super." He offered her a polite smile by way of farewell. "Thanks for the call."

Eric and Ariel picked him up in front of his apartment building a few minutes later. "Thanks for the ride," he said, easing into the back seat of the car. He pulled the door shut and buckled his seat belt. "Hope I haven't made you late for work, Ariel."

"Oh, it's no problem," she said cheerfully, peering at him in the rearview mirror. "I had a cancellation. I wasn't planning to go in to the office until later anyway. Now I'll just work on my book at the office, until my next patient arrives."

"How's that coming, by the way?" he inquired.

"Really well. I should make my deadline next month, no problem."

"Glad to hear it."

Killian managed to make to class only a few minutes late, but he never quite shook the stress from his rough morning. Distracted and out of sorts, he fumbled his way through the class and dismissed his students a few minutes early. He needed to regroup, take some time to relax himself, so he could make it through the rest of the work day with his sanity marginally intact. On a whim, he decided to visit one of the campus coffeehouses. Killian wasn't much for coffee, and the quality of tea they served there was questionable at best, but even a badly brewed beverage would be welcome this morning, so long as it had plenty of caffeine in it.

He paid for his purchases and settled into a quieter corner of the coffeehouse, thankful for the privacy the high-backed booths offered. Killian wasn't much in the mood for company at the moment. Taking a bite of his pastry, he opened an abandoned copy of the school newspaper that lay on the table, and opened it. He scanned some of the articles with vague interest, but his mind kept drifting to his lost cell phone instead. Where could it be? Killian was beginning to wonder if he had even brought it home the other day.

An article about the student Literary Society's latest efforts at fundraising caught his eye, and Killian started reading in earnest. He became so absorbed in the description of the Sherlock-style murder mystery dinner that they had planned for later that month, that it was some time before he recognized the voices of two of his students conversing in the booth behind him.

"...so romantic, isn't it?" Ruby sighed. "Emma's lucky! I mean, I've had flowers sent before, but never poems-and from a secret admirer, no less!"

"That depends on who is sending them."

"Victor!" she whined. "Don't ruin this for me!  _Or_  Emma! This could be good for her, show her there are much better options than this jerk, Neal."

"Unless it's Neal sending them," he pointed out.

Killian felt embarrassed. Eavesdropping was incredibly bad form, however unintentional the circumstances. He picked up the paper again and tried to re-absorb himself in the articles, but his ears seemed to hone in on Ruby and Victor's words, nonetheless.

Ruby sighed. "Granted, I only know him from what you and Jeff have told me, but do you really think he's behind it? He doesn't seem the type, from what you've described."

"I don't know. I wouldn't think so, either, but he's been sending all sorts of stuff, hoping she'd talk to him: flowers, cheap jewelry...why not poems? He could have someone writing them for him."

"But Neal  _signed_  the stuff he sent."

"That's true," Victor admitted with reluctance, "but Emma's convinced it must be him, trying to get back in her good graces. Said it's too convenient that they started arriving around the same time-and right after their breakup."

Killian blinked at this ill-gotten bit of news. He felt torn between satisfaction and relief that Emma and Neal had split up-if for no other reason than that she was well rid of him-and irritation that Neal was wrongfully getting the credit, tainting Emma's view of them. He cursed to himself, taking another drink of his tea. He'd wanted Emma to enjoy the poems, perhaps attach some more pleasant associations to poetry, not reinforce the mildly negative view of it that she seemed to have. Damn it all. What a stupid idea it had been.

"...go with her?" Ruby was saying in a worried tone.

"She refused our offer," he sighed. "She's been pretty careful not to mention where she's meeting him tonight, so we can't follow her," Victor said in exasperation. "But she did promise Jeff it would be in a public place."

"At least there's that," Ruby agreed. There was a brief silence. "You don't think she'd take him back, do you?"

Victor's reply was obscured by a small group of students as they slid into the booth across from Killian, chatting excitedly about their plans for the weekend. Killian gulped down more of his tea. It was lukewarm by now, making it even less appetizing than before, but he was desperate for the caffeine to help him through the day.

"...get going," Ruby insisted, "if I'm going to make my next class."

"I'll walk with you part of the way," Victor offered. There was a scuffle of shoes, and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Killian absorbed everything he'd overheard. It seemed as though he'd inadvertently added to Emma's troubles, through his anonymous poems. The thought that he was making her life more difficult was intolerable. Perhaps he'd better stop sending them to her, and let her draw what conclusions about them that she may. Easier to stop now, at the beginning, than after he had sent several.

 _Hell and damnation,_  he thought to himself, exhausted.  _What a shitty day_.

* * *

Despite its terrible start, Killian found that his day improved slightly as it wore on. He managed to make it through all of his other classes, thanks to copious amounts of caffeine (he even resorted to coffee, once), and he even recovered his cell phone in the afternoon, when he discovered it beneath a stack of papers in his office. And it was damned  _impossible_  to hang on to his sour mood when he held his tiny niece in his arms later that night.

"So. Liam tells me there's a young woman of interest."

Killian, who had been observing his slumbering niece with a melancholic longing for what he might have had with Milah, had events taken a vastly different turn, lifted his head with a jerk. Elsa smiled at them from where she sat in Liam's easy chair. "Liam told me."

"He did, did he?" he huffed softly.

"Mmm-hmm. So who is she?"

Aha. So his busybody older brother hadn't told Elsa quite everything. No doubt, if he had, Elsa would be blistering his ears with a lecture, rather than trying to not-so-subtly dig for more information. Killian scratched behind one ear while he considered how to answer her. "It's not important," he hedged. "She isn't available."

Elsa lifted her white-blonde eyebrows in surprise. "I see. Married, then," she decided in a cool, clipped tone. "Or at least committed to another."

"No, nothing like that."

Her tone softened, "I don't understand. What's the problem, then?"

"The problem," Liam called from the kitchen, where he was preparing dinner, "is that it's against university policy."

 _Dammit_ , he thought. So much for escaping one of Elsa's lectures. Was Liam trying to make the evening unpleasant? It wouldn't exactly work in his favor any more than Killian's when Elsa realized Liam was neutral, even mildly encouraging, of the idea of Killian pursuing a relationship with Emma. Never mind that Killian had no intention of doing so, whatever the attraction. He rather liked his eating and having a roof over his head, and he intended to keep it that way.

Elsa's blue eyes lit up in understanding. "A colleague." Killian blinked. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Liam winked as he set a bowl of salad on the table. "That's too bad," she murmured. "Still-I wouldn't give up the notion entirely."

"Oh, not you, too," he groaned. Miri stirred in his arms, fussing. "Sorry," he apologized to his niece, gently rocking her back into a slumber.

"I'm just saying...it's been what, ten years from what Liam's told me?" He nodded woodenly. "This is fairly momentous, then. Don't let it go without a fight."

He was saved the trouble of formulating a reply when Liam called them to supper. Gratefully, he placed Miri in her bassinette and followed Elsa to the supper table, whereupon she was too distracted by the lasagna Liam was dishing up to pursue the matter further. When they finished eating, Killian decided it was his turn to make Liam uncomfortable. He cornered his brother while they did the dishes.

"Have you decided when you're going to do it then, mate?" he murmured several minutes after Elsa left the kitchen to go nurse Miri.

"Ah, not yet," Liam hedged, rinsing the salad bowls before placing them in the dishwasher. "I don't want her to think it's just because of the baby."

"But you had nine months to propose, if that was your motivation," he disagreed. "Anyhow, I doubt that she would see things that way, Liam. And it's not as if she'll say no."

Liam shot him an anxious look. Killian blinked. His brother always exuded such confidence that it had never occurred to him that he might be a little insecure about Elsa's acceptance. Granted, marriage was a big step, and there was plenty to be nervous about, but whether it was the naivety of youth, or the arrogance of a man who thought the world lay at his feet, Killian had never doubted for a moment that Milah would accept, when he'd proposed at their high school graduation ceremony. It had only taken one irresponsible drunk to disabuse him of both qualities.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Milah would make of the man he was today. But then, the man he was now had been heavily shaped by the tragedy of losing her, rendering the thought rather moot.

"You worry too much," he informed his brother. "Anyway," he said, attempting to shake off his melancholy thoughts, "better not wait too long," he warned. "Otherwise she'll find the ring during one of her cleaning jags."

"You're probably right," Liam agreed. "At least Miri's a good distraction from that, for the time being. I haven't even decided how I want to propose."

"Well, what would Milah like?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Killian could have kicked himself. He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. "Um, it looks like the dishwasher is nearly full. Hand me the detergent, will you?"

"Killian," his brother began gently, putting the last of the dishes into the appliance, "it's only natural that you'd think of her."

"Haven't you been the one after me not to fixate on it, all these years?" he muttered, a tinge of resentment creeping into his voice.

"During the years where you let it consume you, when I had to bully you out of bed in the mornings, yes. My God, Killian, you were nearly suicidal. I had to nag you to eat meals-"

"You still do," he pointed out. Liam had become quite the mother hen over the years. Not without reason, of course, as Liam had pointed out, but it was rather annoying.

"-and hope to God you attended class every time I dropped you off, instead of ditching to hang out with that awful girl-what was her name? I don't know what you ever saw in her."

"Regina," he supplied. "And we were never together like that, I've told you."

"Together or not, I didn't like the influence she had on you."

"Regina had lost her own boyfriend. She knew what I was going through. I doubt we'd have even been friends under normal circumstances, I grant you, but we were both battling some of the same demons at the time."

"Battling? She was embracing them," he snorted. "And taking you along for the ride. Her mother forcing her to transfer to another university closer to home was a godsend."

Killian couldn't deny the truth of his brother's words. In Regina's absence, he had thrown himself into his studies-at first because they were a distraction, a means of passing the time; but over time they morphed into his lifeline, and he, who had scraped by at the beginning of his college career, graduated with top marks and was easily accepted into the graduate program for literature at several universities.

But it had only been a mask for his pain, a way to avoid being caught in the undertow of grief again, and drowning completely. The real process of grieving, the hard, grueling work of processing all his feelings of rage and betrayal and helplessness had taken years to sort through, under the guidance of Ariel's colleague, Dr. Hopper.

Liam filled the dishwasher with detergent and started it. The hum of the appliance filled the kitchen. "Be that as it may," he said, "she was bad for you, regardless of the status of your relationship to each other. It was the unhealthy way of dealing with your grief that I wanted you to put behind you, brother. Not your feelings or memories of Milah. I loved her, too. And it would be wrong to behave as if she never existed." He eyed Killian with a look of compassion. "Even if that were possible."

"Right." He cleared his throat again. "I think I'll take Miri out for a bit, if you don't mind. Clear my head."

His brother looked as if he wanted to say something more, but he shook his head and wisely left it alone. "I'll go see if Elsa has finished feeding her."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Killian was standing in his favorite section of the nearest book store, chatting absently to his niece as he perused the shelves. She watched him with wide blue eyes from her stroller, where she was snuggled beneath a fuzzy yellow blanket. Blonde curls peeked out from beneath the pink and white cap Elsa's sister had knitted for Miri, giving the infant the appearance of a halo. The illusion couldn't be more appropriate, so far as Killian was concerned.

"I never figured you for the science fiction type."

His head jerked up at the sound of her voice. "Emma!" He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Blonde hair was swept back into a simple ponytail, and green eyes sparkled from behind a pair of glasses with thick black frames. They suited her, he thought. But then, he couldn't imagine anything that wouldn't.

Killian glanced down at the book in his hand and smiled. "Well, it's not The Bridges of Madison County," he joked, "but I do enjoy reading works outside of classical literature, too. What we consider classics today weren't necessarily so when they first debuted," he pointed out. "And certainly, there are classics within the different genres that might not be cross-classified into classic literature."

"Hey, no judgment from me," she smiled. "My dad enjoyed the genre, too. Though he was more into fantasy, with swords and wizards and stuff." She laughed to herself. "He was a bigger Harry Potter fan than even me."

The fact that she spoke of her father in the past tense didn't escape him. "I see," he said, shelving the book again. "He sounds like he was an interesting man."

"Yeah," she said with a catch in her voice. "He, um, he-" Her cheerful expression crumpled.

"Emma?" he said with concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, it's not you," she said as her expression hardened. "It's only been a couple of years," she explained. "And it' always harder when I've had a crappy night."

Killian thought of his own bad day, then remembered the conversation he had overheard in the coffee house. Had Emma been here speaking with Neal? "I understand," he said. "I'm sorry to hear of your loss."

She nodded. "Thanks."

There was something of an awkward silence after that, until Miri made her presence known again with a loud wail. They chuckled nervously, trading amused looks, and Killian reached into the stroller and released Miri from the straps. "Quite right, princess," he murmured. "I've been abominably rude. Where are my manners? Emma, this is my niece, Mirabelle. Miri, for short."

"Hi, Miri," she waved. She glanced at Killian. "I heard you talking to her in the next aisle over. I guess you're babysitting tonight?"

"Of a sort. I figured it was the least I could do after Liam and Elsa had me over for dinner and saved me from burning down my own apartment trying to cook tonight."

She raised her eyebrows. "Cooking's not your thing?"

"Actually, Liam and I became rather good at it after-" He broke off, realizing that the details of his childhood rather too personal to share, if it meant maintaining the necessary professional distance between them. It was bad enough that it had been breached the night of the concert. "Bad day, that's all" he amended. "Besides, it gives them a few hours alone."

"Ah," she said with an impish glint in her eyes. "Liam must be happy," she smirked.

He groaned, absently patting Miri on the back. She gurgled at him. "I prefer to maintain the delusion that the stork brought Miri."

"I've always preferred the cabbages, myself. They were the best tended vegetable in our garden until my mother figured out why I was so obsessed with them and told me the truth. I was crushed. I really wanted a baby brother."

He shifted Miri in his arms. "Only child?"

She nodded. "It's not so bad, I guess. And my parents practically adopted my friend August later on, so I as good as got a brother, anyway." She wrinkled her nose. "He's kind of an asshole sometimes, though. Travels the country on his motorcycle, racking up debt and taking odd jobs to get by. Hardly calls." She shrugged. "Well. I should probably be going. " She waved at Miri again, who responded with a toothless smile. Something flashed across Emma's face, too brief to interpret. "I, uh, I don't want to miss my ride. I should go wait for it."

"You took the bus?"

"No, uh, I got a ride from my friend, Ruby. She borrowed her grandmother's truck. Seemed glad enough to give me the ride when I asked." She made a face. "I have a feeling there's going to be a mandatory stop somewhere for "girl talk," though."

"Ha," he snorted. "You sound like Elsa, whenever her sister visits." He eyed her with amusement. "See you on Monday, then, if you survive it."

She grinned, leaning forward to tickle Miri under the chin with a wistful expression. The infant responded with a kick of her legs and a raspberry. "See you Monday."

Killian watched her thread her way out of the aisle and through the store, until she disappeared through the glass doors that led to the parking lot. Miri wriggled in his arms with a wail. "I know the feeling," he muttered. Perhaps he would send just a couple more poems to Emma after all. Cheer her up. And disabuse her of the notion that Neal was sending them, at least. "Come on, let's text your parents and let them know we're on the way home. I have no intention of walking in on anything that will shatter that fiction about you and the stork."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, an update is finally here! Now that my baby is past the newborn stage, I'm slowly trying to get back into a more regular pattern of writing, so bear with me. Hopefully this was well worth the wait!

Over the next week and a half, Emma buried herself in schoolwork. Although she felt good about her decision to break up with Neal, her pride still smarted over the fact that she had blinded herself to his true character. In the initial aftermath, Emma wondered whether she had chosen the right major. Perhaps she wasn't cut out for a future in law enforcement if she was such a poor judge of character. All she'd ever wanted to do since she was six years old was follow in her father's footsteps. A desire which had only grown stronger after his death. The thought that she might be incapable of doing so disturbed her.

But the more Emma worried, the more she threw herself into her studies in a frantic attempt to quell her doubts. And then, a funny thing happened: Emma just got mad.

No way was she going to let some jerk that wasn't part of her life anymore dictate even the smallest part of her future. Maybe she didn't have the instinctual ability to accurately assess a person's character, but that didn't mean she couldn't damn well learn. Hadn't she always been pretty good at sensing when a person was lying? She just needed to build upon that and learn to utilize it to her advantage, both personally and professionally.

Yet as hard as she worked, and as much as she excelled in all of her other classes, Emma still found herself floundering in Professor Jones's poetry class.

"I just don't get it," she complained to Ruby one evening over a cup of lackluster coffee she had purchased as an excuse to linger in the diner where Ruby worked for her grandmother. "And I don't think I ever will. It's the one subject I just can't seem to grasp, no matter how hard I work. I'm going to flunk this class."

Ruby paused in the middle of refilling some of the salt shakers. "Emma, it can't be that bad."

She snorted. "I completely bombed that essay we had last class."

"You don't know that. We haven't even gotten our grades back yet. I bet you did better than you think, especially after our study group. Graham really knows this stuff."

Emma shook her head. "I don't know...even your brother isn't a miracle worker."

"Have you gone to his office and asked for some help? Professor Jones is pretty nice, Emma. And I think he does care a lot about the subject-"

A corner of Emma's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Yeah, he really does," she murmured. Ruby paused in her work again, watching Emma with narrowed eyes. "I mean, uh, I got that sense from him," Emma recovered hastily. She hadn't told anyone, even her roommates-no,  _especially_  not her roommates-about the real depth of her interactions with Professor Jones. For one thing, they would never let her live the impossible crush down, for another...

"Ha! I knew it!" her friend crowed, startling her. "You're as affected by him as the rest of us!"

"He's...attractive," she admitted grudgingly. "And I wouldn't say all of us," she finished dryly. "Merida and Mulan certainly don't seem to care."

"That's because they're too busy flirting, trying to best each other," Ruby smirked. "It's adorable the way they keep dancing around each other-"

"Like you and Victor?" Emma said with a raise of her eyebrow.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," the other girl said with a bright expression.

"Oh, please."

"Whoops, Granny's giving me the evil eye again; I better go see if anyone needs a refill." She turned away, grabbing a pot of coffee. "Back in a jiffy!"

"Convenient," Emma muttered, leafing through her poetry textbook. Leaning over, she picked her backpack off the floor next to her stool and rummaged blindly through one of the smaller compartments for a highlighter. Her hands brushed across a piece of paper, and she frowned. Peering into her backpack with a frown, she pulled out a small bundle of envelopes bound together by a rubber band. "What the hell?" Forgetting all about the highlighter, she retrieved the bundle and dropped her backpack back on the floor with a soft thud.

A note was stuffed under the rubber band.  _Emma,_  Victor had scrawled,  _these got mixed up in my stack of mail by mistake. Looks like they were sent a week ago. Sorry I didn't notice sooner._

"Great," she muttered, tearing open one of the envelopes without so much as a glance at the sender. "These had better not be bills."

The clean, unlined paper she pulled out sent a slight chill down her spine. The last time she had seen such paper-

"It can't be," she growled, unfolding the paper. "Doesn't that idiot know when to stop?"

"Stop what?" Ruby asked with an eager glint in her eyes as she breezed over to return the coffee pot. She wiped her hands on her apron. "What's that? Another love letter?" she teased.

Emma stared at the poem in front of her and nodded numbly.

 _In that twilit time_  
_betwixt the abyss_  
_of that realm called sleep_  
_and the restlessness_  
_of this internal tempest,_  
_I sail a ship of  
_ _Impossible dreams._

 _Caught in the maelstrom_  
_of your Siren's call,_  
_I captain this vessel,_  
_bound for certain doom._  
_And yet how could I_  
_ever hope to stand  
_ _firm against your charms?_

 _Skin kissed by seafoam,_  
_and eyes that were forged_  
_of dreams and starlight..._  
_Aye, they do haunt me!_  
_Seductive whispers,_  
_which torment with every  
_ _break of glitt'ring wave._

 _A splash of hard truth_  
_And reality_  
_dawns again as I wake._  
_Cursed Fate! That witch_  
_who loves to divide..._  
_You into your world,  
_ _And I trapped in mine._

 _But, what Hope! They say_  
_she springs eternal._  
_And on her I perch_  
_my love and devotion._  
_I'd give up this ship_  
_and cross time-just to  
_ _join your soul to mine._

Emma stared at the poem in disbelief. Her mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. She inhaled deeply, counting to herself as she tried to calm the uneasy thumping of her heart. Reaching into her purse, she wiped her sweating palms on a handkerchief stowed inside, and turned her attention to the other poem.

 _These cursed lips_  
_cannot do many things;_  
_they cannot whisper to you in confidence,  
_ _nor offer you the tender affection of kings._

 _Neither can they kiss you,_  
_slow and devoted, after a fashion,_  
_or cry together with you  
_ _in new heights of passion._

 _Worst, they cannot offer_  
_a future of diamond-bright devotion,_  
_nor seal the promises of a lifetime  
_ _with consummation of overwhelming emotion._

 _These lips, these cursed lips!_  
_They are useful for naught._  
_Yet-with five simple tools I can mold longing  
_ _Into words which else might never be wrought._

Slim fingers snatched the poems away. "What's this?" Ruby interrupted. "Oooh, it is more poems from your admirer!" Her eyes scanned the pages eagerly.

"More like fuel for a bonfire," she grunted.

Ruby looked at her incredulously. "Emma, you can't be serious. A guy is sending you love poems, and you have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with my jerkface ex not taking "no" for an answer!" She reached for the poems but Ruby held them aloft, above her head.

"Oh, come on. 'Betwixt, tempest, maelstrom?'" she quoted with an arch of her brow. "You really think Neal is sending these? He doesn't strike me as the type, from everything Victor's told me."

"Someone else could be writing them for him," she shrugged. "Besides, who else could it be?"

"Oh, just any of the cute guys you've met recently," Ruby argued, "who happen to have a working brain and a phone directory!"

"Who says the guy sending them is cute?"

"Well fine," Ruby rolled her eyes, "who says it's even a guy for that matter?" she countered. "Jeez, Emma! Stop being so ridiculous!"

"It's  _not_  ridiculous to exercise caution about a potential stalker," Emma argued, snatching the poems from Ruby's grasp at last. She stuffed them in her backpack with no particular care, crumpling them a little.

"A stalker?" Ruby echoed. "Really, Emma, must you be so suspicious about everything? Can't you just relax and enjoy this even a teensy bit?"

"Nope," she answered matter-of-factly, "Cop's daughter, remember? Besides, I let my guard down with Neal, and look how that turned out."

"All right," Ruby said evenly. She scrubbed at a non-existent spill on the counter top. "Do you have any evidence that it's a stalker, or are you just determined to view everything with the most negative spin possible?"

"The latter."

"Jeez, Emma, you're depressing," she complained.

"Who's depressing?" Graham inquired in his deep, lilting voice as he walked up behind Emma. He looked from Ruby to Emma with a quizzical expression.

"Never mind that," Ruby said with a frown. She untied her apron and threw it across the counter at her brother. "You're late."

"Only five minutes," he protested, rounding the counter to trade places with his sister.

"What's the rush?" Emma teased, watching her friend, who was anxiously checking her reflection in a mirror. "What, you and Victor have a hot date or something?" Ruby blushed, pausing in the act of fluffing her hair, and mumbled something about needing to visit the ladies room. She scurried off like a guilty puppy that's just been caught stealing scraps off the dinner table. Emma glanced at Graham, who had donned the apron and begun cutting up lemons into wedges for iced tea. "What  _is_  the story with those two, anyway?"

Graham glanced up briefly and shrugged. "Beats me," he smiled. "Ruby doesn't volunteer much information about the guys she dates, and I certainly don't ask. But," he went on, "I can tell you this much: I've never seen her show this much interest in one guy for so long."

Emma smiled to herself. "Hmm," she said, thinking of the difference in Victor's behavior and dating habits since meeting Ruby, "I think I know what you mean."

"So how is the studying going for you tonight?" Graham inquired with a nod toward her textbooks, which were splayed all over the counter in front of her. "Is poetry getting any easier for you to understand?"

"I don't think so," Emma admitted. "I think I did pretty badly on our essay."

Graham furrowed his brow. "What happened? You seemed to know the material quite well when we went over it in our study group."

"I don't know, I just...Professor Jones handed me the paper, and my palms started to sweat, and I just drew a total blank when I scanned over the questions. I couldn't remember anything we went over." Anything except the heady scent of her professor's cologne, that is-a fact which Emma carefully neglected to mention. Even now, her memory could recall it with startling precision, the ghostly spice of it causing her to glance over her shoulder for Professor Jones's presence, foolish as it was.

"Sounds like a case of nerves. Have you ever had anxiety when taking tests before?"

"Not really," she realized, after thinking about it for a few moments. "But then, I've never had this much trouble with a subject in school before."

"Hmm," Graham said, "you know, I used to do a little tutoring. I could give you some pointers to reduce test-taking anxiety, and go over the material with you again, if you like. How's Friday evening? You can text me after your last class, and we can meet at Breen's to go over the materials."

"I, um," Emma floundered, "sure, if you think it will help." She smiled. "Thanks."

"Not a problem," he assured her, as he picked up a plastic tub, "it's a date." He flashed her a gentle smile, and went to bus the tables, clearing them of dirty dishes.

 _Date?_  Emma thought in panic, as Graham went to bus the tables and clear them of dirty dishes.

"Hey!" Ruby said, startling Emma. "I was thinking-" She frowned. "What's wrong? You look like someone bit you, or something."

"What?" Emma blinked. "Oh, uh...no, just thinking." She was being ridiculous. Graham hadn't meant a romantic date, she chided herself. It was just a study date, that was all. Completely innocent.

A memory flashed through Emma's mind, of a table littered with books and crumpled paper, sniggering with Neal over God even knew what-

Ruby tilted her head. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," she lied as she saw Victor walk through the door of the diner, "I'm fine. Just tired."

"You want Victor and me to drop you off at home?" Ruby inquired with a worried frown.

"No, that's okay. Jefferson texted a few minutes ago. He's going to pick me up soon."

"All right, see you later, then," Ruby said, slipping into her coat with Victor's help. "But don't think our little conversation is over!" she insisted with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

"Of course not," Emma said with a tolerant smile, having no intention whatsoever to resume the subject. "See you tomorrow, Ruby."

* * *

Ruby never got the chance to interrogate or lecture Emma the next day about the anonymous poems she was receiving, however, due in no small part to Professor Jones. After a fast-paced and lively class discussion (during which she desperately tried to scribble some notes to make sense of things), Emma was ready to escape to the campus coffee house and clear her head for a while before her next class. She hadn't slept particularly well, dreaming of her father off and on throughout the night, and it had put her in a somewhat somber mood, ruining what little concentration she could usually muster during poetry class.

"Emma," Professor Jones called, waylaying her by the door. "I'd like a word in my office, if you've the time."

"Uh, okay," she blinked. She glanced toward her friends, who were clustered outside the classroom door and shrugged, mouthing ,  _Catch you later_. Ruby's eyes widened as she glanced from Emma to Professor Jones, and her expression was sympathetic as she shuffled off with Graham and Victor. "Um, lead the way, I guess," she said awkwardly, when the last of her classmates had filed out of the room.

Professor Jones flicked off the lights and ushered her through the doorway, closing the classroom door behind them. "It's a bit of a walk," he explained, his long strides catching Emma off-guard. Her eyes trailed down his backside as she followed, and she felt her face grow hot. Emma increased her own stride to catch up and tried to banish the image of his very firm ass from her mind.

"Sorry," he apologized, glancing over at her. He slowed his pace a little. "Habit. A brisk walk helps me think."

He didn't elaborate further, and Emma started to worry just what he needed to think so hard about, and why he had asked her to come to his office.  _Oh God_ , she thought _, I didn't just bomb the essay, I must be flunking the course just like I thought._  Was it too late to withdraw? Emma didn't even know.

"Here we are," he said several minutes later when they arrived at his office. He slid a key into the door and unlocked it, flipping the light on. He stepped inside, seating himself in a chair and invited her into the cramped space.

Emma entered slowly, gazing around in curiosity at the small office-closet, really. That he had ever managed to fit a small desk ( _was_  it even a desk under all that paper?) and two chairs inside was a miracle, she decided, much less a small book shelf crammed with so many volumes that the shelves bowed visibly.

She sat down in a chair opposite of him, and watched idly as he turned on his computer and then opened his briefcase, rifling through the papers. Pulling her backpack up into her lap, she held it between them like a shield, wondering what her mother would say when she found out that Emma was failing one of her classes. She cringed inwardly at the thought of her mother's soft, consoling voice insisting that Emma could retake the course over the summer, she had done her best, hadn't she, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about, and on the whole being so damnably  _understanding_  that Emma ended up feeling almost irritated with her own mother. It hadn't been so bad when her father was still alive. He always seemed to know what to do or say to best temper his wife's more smothering tendencies and defuse the friction between mother and daughter.

 _I miss you, dad,_  she thought with a melancholy wistfulness. He would've had a solution; he always did-even if it meant rolling up his sleeves and working through the course together.

"Emma?"

Professor Jones's deep, musical voice broke through her thoughts. She blinked, gazing owlishly at him. "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" she asked in confusion.

"I asked if you were all right. You look...troubled." He watched her with concern, the deep blue of his eyes appearing almost black in the dimly lit office. Emma wondered for a moment what those eyes would look like, glazed with satisfaction after an orgasm. And what about during? Was he the type that closed his eyes and cried out when he came, or-

"Emma!"

She started guiltily, feeling her cheeks heat up. "Sorry," she apologized, steadily avoiding his gaze. "I didn't sleep well last night. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

He picked up the little blue booklet with her name scrawled across the front. "I wanted to speak with you about your grade-"

"How bad?" she moaned. "Am I going to flunk the course?"

He handed her the booklet, and she opened it to see a large red D+ at the top of the page. Emma felt almost pitifully grateful that it hadn't been an F, outright.

"I think it's a bit premature to worry about flunking the course," he began, "but certainly there's some cause for concern if you're struggling this much with the material. The good news is that the more proactive we are, and the earlier we address this, the better chance we have of you succeeding in the long haul. Now, let's take a look at your essay," he suggested, scooting his chair closer and turning sideways to that they could both see it.

In a room that already offered little space, this put them in even closer proximity than before, and Emma's senses swam as the scent of his cologne seduced her. A shiver zipped down her spine, and she dug her fingers into her backpack; if not for its heavy weight in her lap, grounding her in reality, Emma feared she might have sprung from her chair and leapt into Professor Jones's lap, rubbing against him and purring like a cat.

"Now," Emma dimly heard him say, "do you understand why you received such a low grade on your essay, Miss Nolan?"

That got her attention. Emma's eyes snapped back to the booklet. "Well," she said ruefully, "because I suck at poetry. I mean, that's fairly obvious, isn't it?"

He frowned. "Actually, your essay shows some promise." Emma's facial expression must have been heavy with skepticism, because he laughed suddenly. "No, really. Your command of the analytical techniques we have been using in class is good."

"Then-I don't get it. How did I get a D?"

" The assignment was to write your own coherent analysis of the poem. I look at this, and I see no original thoughts, no part of Emma. What you have written here is simply a mishmash of various possible interpretations that we discussed in class. There are no new insights, no creativity."

"But-" she faltered.

"Yes?"

"I don't understand. Isn't the whole point of analysis to look for clues within the poem to figure out what it's saying?"

"Well, yes..."

"Then I don't get it. I analyzed the different clues that I found within the poem, and I wrote out my solution. What else is there?"

His eyes lit up. "Ah! Now I think we may be getting to the heart of the problem. You see poems like a mathematical formula: simply plug the correct numbers into the formula, and arrive at the answer. But poetry isn't math, Emma. There isn't one right answer. You're over-thinking it. In fact," he said, "I would advise that you stop thinking at all."

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled. "Forgive me. That came out wrong. Poetry isn't just about finding answers, Emma. It's about human emotion and experience. You can't encapsulate all of that into a mathematical formula, designed to give you one neat answer. Forget about trying to figure out what the poem  _says_ ; pay attention to how it makes you  _feel_. The rest will follow." He spun his chair around toward the book shelf behind him and plucked a moderately thick volume off of the top shelf. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "I think you might find this helpful."

Emma glanced down at the cover. "Emily Dickinson?" she asked in surprise. "It's been a while since I read her, back in high school, but I remember her being pretty impossible to understand, most of the time."

"Not impossible," he argued, "but difficult at times. Quite difficult. That's what we want."

"We...do?

He nodded. "It sounds counterintuitive, but I think studying something so dense and obscure might be helpful to you. Let yourself absorb the words; don't try to analyze them.  _Feel_  the words. "

She stared down at the grade on her test, unconvinced that she would be able to simply turn off her propensity to collect, analyze, sort, and interpret data. She had spent her entire childhood playing detective, in admiration of her father. Abandoning this skill set, however temporarily, felt somehow like it might be a betrayal of his memory, and all that he had taught her.

"I don't know how to do that," she said, feeling a little embarrassed about the admission.

"I see," Professor Jones said, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "Have you thought about a tutor?" He wrote something on a pad of paper, and then tore it off, handing it to her. A name and telephone number were written on it in block letters.

"Henry Mills, 555-0125," she read.

"He's a bright lad, about seventeen," Professor Jones went on, "and he's been taking courses here at Farrenton for a couple of years now, earning college credit-"

"Wait-you're telling me this kid is still in high school?"  _Jesus_ , Emma thought,  _how humiliating_. It wasn't enough that she completely sucked at poetry and needed a tutor at all in the first place, but a high school whiz kid who was already taking college courses was going to tutor her? Could this get any worse?

"He's young," Professor Jones conceded, "but I think you would be a good fit for each other."

"I, uh, sort of already set up something with Graham," Emma said awkwardly, "from our class. He used to do some tutoring, and he offered to help me out."

"Ah," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Well, if you change your mind, or you want additional help, don't hesitate to contact Henry. He would be glad to be of service, and the students I've referred to him have always showed marked improvement in their grades, after working with him a few weeks."

"I'll keep that in mind." She stood up. "I should be going. I have class in twenty minutes, and I have a bit of a walk."

Professor Jones stood as well, brushing against her as he reached over to open the door. Emma shivered, thankful to escape out into the hallway before she could do anything stupid. "Thanks," she said, trying to muster a smile. "See you next class."

He nodded. "Let me know how the reading goes. If you need any further help, please feel free to drop by during my office hours."

He flashed her a quick smile before disappearing back into her office, and Emma felt her heart speed up in response _. Damn that Professor Jones_ , she thought with mild irritation as she set off for her next class,  _he's going to be the end of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: POSSIBLE FILMING SPOILERS BELOW:
> 
> Yes, I know there are supposedly no plans to develop Merida romantically with Mulan or anyone else within the show, but I'd been planning on pairing them up since the start of this story, and I wasn't going to change that vision just because of some spoilers. Besides, I really think they would be great together!


	10. Chapter 10

As January became February, the weather, which had been by all accounts unseasonably warm, suddenly turned bitterly cold. Ice and snow became a frequent occurrence, and Killian was forced to rise much earlier in the mornings to de-ice and warm his newly repaired car before picking up Eric on the way to Farrenton. The one advantage to all of this was that Killian often arrived at campus earlier than usual. With time to kill, Killian often spent it in his office grading assignments or preparing additional materials for his classes. Occasionally, he even wrote.

And it was on one of these mornings that fate decided to give him a nudge.

"Professor Jones?"

Killian looked up, startled. He'd been struggling for days to strike just the right phrase for the thought he wanted to convey, and he hadn't even heard the knock on his open door. His face lit into a smile at the visitor. "Emma!" he said, quickly closing the legal pad upon which he'd been writing. He laid aside on his desk, thankful for once that it was such a bloody mess. He rearranged some of the books and other materials on its surface, both clearing a larger space and obscuring the legal pad behind other things. "You're here early," he observed, waving her into the office. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She hesitated in the doorway, her expression uncertain. "I...this isn't about class." Her green eyes were full of doubt and worry. "But Jefferson said you would be able to help."

He furrowed his brow. "I'll certainly do my best if it's within my capability."

She shuffled into the office at last and peered out into the dimly lit hallway before shutting the door with a click. She sat down in the chair opposite him and unzipped her backpack. Removing a sheaf of crumpled and folded papers , she thrust them at him without a word.

Killian scanned the top page. And his heart stopped cold. "Emma..." he said in a strangled whisper as his own poetry leapt forth from the typewritten pages, "why are you showing these to me?"

"Someone's been sending them to me," she began cautiously. "Sometimes with little gifts like flowers, sometimes not. And I'm not sure what to do about it."

He leafed through the poems helplessly, staring at his own writing in morbid fascination. A dozen thoughts galloped through his head at once: How in the world had she figured it out? What the hell was he supposed to do now? He was going to lose his job. Liam was going to be pissed off. Hadn't he told Killian not to get caught? And Elsa...she'd make Liam look bloody kind and understanding about the whole thing. Hans was _still_ running from her, as Killian understood it, after what he'd done to her sister. It was only recently that Elsa had even warmed up to Anna's long-time boyfriend, Kristoff--and they had been dating for over three years now! Elsa was the _last_ person whose bad graces Killian wanted to be in. This had to stop. All of it. Today.

Killian ran a hand through his hair, picking his words carefully. How on earth did you explain yourself in a situation like this? You couldn't, that's what. He'd been a complete idiot about all of this. What on earth had made him think any of this was a good idea? Why hadn't he _listened_ to the saner portion of himself and refused to give in to his unexplainable attraction to Emma? _Miss Nolan_ , he corrected himself. It had to be Miss Nolan from now on. It should never have been anything _but_.

"Emma," he croaked, before he even realized what he was saying. "Er, Miss Nolan, that is..."

"Can you read them to me, please?" she interrupted.

"What?" he blinked. That was hardly the reaction he'd been expecting to this little...whatever it was he'd been fool enough to think he was doing.

"I need...I want your interpretation. Are they something I should worry about?" she asked, plucking at a stray piece of string hanging from her scarlet sweater.

He frowned, utterly confused. "What do you mean?"

"It's just..." She wound the string around her index finger absently, "I thought Neal was sending them at first, as a way to try to win me back after we broke up. He was sending all these gifts, too. So I just leapt to the logical conclusion, I guess, and assumed everything was from him," she rambled, "but he's adamant that he hasn't, and Jefferson said you had a stalker once and could advise me if you thought it was a genuine threat." She paused, taking a deep breath. "So that's why I'm here so early. I was hoping to catch you outside of office hours, just in case...well, I don't want anyone else to know."

He stared at her, trying to absorb everything she'd just rattled off. Killian leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. "Am I to understand that you think you're in danger?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe? I'm a cop's daughter. I have to consider the possibility."

"I see." He rubbed his chin, peering down at his handiwork as he tried to collect his thoughts. Emma _didn't_ know that he'd sent the poems and (some of, apparently) the flowers she'd been receiving. There was still time to get out of this with his dignity--and job--intact. "So, ah, you'd like me to review these and determine whether your admirer means you any harm?" he clarified.

"Yes."

"Well," he scratched behind one ear, stalling, "that's likely to take some time." He glanced at the clock on the wall above his desk and discovered, much to his dismay, that there was still a good forty-five minutes before he had to teach class. Plenty of time to "analyze" at least a portion of these poems for her. He sighed. "But I suppose we can begin," he murmured.

"Great. Where do we start?"

"Um," Killian said, glancing down at the pile of his work. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Is there a particular one that's puzzling you?"

She leaned forward suddenly and scooped the pile of poems out of his lap. Killian froze at her touch. While not indecent by any standard, the contact was still rather more intimate than the professional relationship they were supposed to maintain dictated. But then, professional and distant had long gone out the window where Emma Nolan was concerned, even if she didn't realize it. And that was why he was in this situation.

"How about this one?" She extracted it from the stack of paper and handed it to him. Killian scanned it and saw that it was the one he'd written, comparing her to a swan. "I don't get it. What do swans have to do with anything?"

"Well," he said slowly, trying to appear as if he were pondering the answer, "swans are known to mate for life, so he could be making a statement about commitment. They also symbolize grace and beauty...even eroticism. Which could represent how he thinks of you." He tried not to notice the becoming flush that colored her cheeks as he said this. If I may?" he said, holding out his hand for the paper before he could do anything stupid like kiss her.

Emma surrendered it, her eyes afire with curiosity. Killian glanced over his work, chewing on his lower lip as he tried to synthesize the thoughts and feelings that he'd put into the poem in a way that Emma could understand.

_a headdress of snowy feathers allures_

_across a pond of bitter fortune_

_thy elegant arch of form_

_the envy of other pens_

_your impassioned gaze ignorant_

_of even the most ardent devotion_

_you laze in solitary waters_

_unmindful of the herd_

_while I drift in wistful contemplation_

_of that ancient courtship dance_

_then with beat of powerful wings_

_you take to the sky_

_flying free and unchained_

_my companion held aloft by fate_

_My Swan._

"Look at this line here, near the beginning. The headdress of snowy feathers calls to mind your fair hair. And use of the word "allures," speaks of attraction, but it could also mean he feels drawn to you in a metaphysical way."

"Metaphysical? You mean like spiritual?"

"Mmm...more like essential to one's being."

"Oh. Like soul mates?"

"Yes," Killian said, secretly pleased that she had put it into words. "Perhaps something like that."

"But what about the bitter fortune?"

"Fortune has several meanings. It can refer to wealth, luck, or fate. I'd say that based on the context, it's possible he feels unworthy of you, or believes that circumstances will not allow you to be together."

"And the pens?" she pressed. "What does writing have to do with it?"

"Mmm," Killian murmured to himself, "now that's more obscure," he admitted. "The writing utensil wouldn't make any sense in this context, would it? So the speaker must refer to another meaning," he guided her.

Emma frowned, pressing a few buttons on her phone to Google it. "Enclosure for livestock doesn't make sense either," she muttered, scrolling through the results. "A dock? Ugh, no. Shortened form for penitentiary? Definitely not. Oh! A female swan." She leaned over, peering at the poem again. Killian caught a whiff of her spicy perfume and inched closer to her, despite himself. "So the other girl swans are jealous of my...long neck?"

He chuckled. "I suppose that would be one way to look at it, Miss Nolan, if we are being quite literal. Although I suspect your admirer is referring to other physical attributes that are to his liking."

"Other...?" Her face turned a deep shade of crimson once she took his meaning. "Oh my God!"

Killian scrubbed at the back of his neck, feeling his own face heat with embarrassment. Thank God she hadn't any idea who had really written the poem. "Apologies, Miss Nolan," he said, clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should have left it at the literal meaning."

"Oh, it's um, it's fine," she stuttered. "I mean I asked, and literature isn't um, always pure and innocent."

"No," he agreed. "Literature is about the human condition. It encompasses feeling such as lust, envy, greed, love, vengeance...they all have something to teach us."

"Like my dad," she murmured. "He saw that kind of thing first hand."

"I imagine so," Killian agreed. "Poetry is a safer way in which we can examine these things, Emma. You shouldn't let it intimidate you."

"Thanks, I'll try to remember that." She scooted her chair closer to him, leaning toward Killian as she craned her neck to see. Killian watched her out of the corner of his eyes. He itched to wrap his arm around her and draw her just the two or three inches closer to his shoulder, lending his warmth to her in the chilly little office. "So what about the rest of this?"

"Ah," Killian said, snapping out of the brief fantasy of Emma's silken coiffure cascading over his shoulder, allowing him to comb his fingers through it, "well the middle lines of the poem set the swan apart from everyone else," he explained. "Look at the words the speaker uses to describe the swan: drifting in "solitary waters", being "unmindful of the herd" and "ignorant" of other admirers. She's a world apart from him. Completely unattainable. He _wants_ to engage in that "ancient courtship" ritual that would bond them, but he knows it's wishful thinking. Hence the "wistful contemplation."

"Wait. You said swans mate for life. So, uh, the courtship ritual would be...marriage?"

"Metaphorically speaking, it could be, yes. But marriage tends to come after courtship for humans. Literally speaking, it probably refers to the mating ritual between swans."

"Oh," she blushed again. "You weren't kidding about the eroticism, huh?"

He coughed in amusement. "Perhaps, Miss Swan, you should take it that he simply wishes to explore the potential between you. Get to know you."

"Then why all the talk that I'm so unattainable to him?"

"Well..." Killian glanced up at the clock on the wall above his desk. "Um, perhaps this conversation should be continued another time, Miss Nolan. Class begins in ten minutes."

"All right," she sighed. "But tell me this... Do you think I have anything to worry about?"

He chewed on his lower lip, debating with himself how to best answer her question. "May I be frank?"

"Please."

"If the closing lines of this poem are any indication, he's relatively harmless. He's willing to let you "take to the sky" and fly "free and unchained". That doesn't sound like a stalker. Stalkers don't respect your freedom and agency. They obsess and try to entrap. You aren't something to be possessed, Emma. You are his "companion, held aloft by fate". His beloved, no matter that it's not official."

"Then why call me _his_ swan, there at the end?" she challenged. "That sounds like I'm his possession to me."

"Good question, Miss Nolan. Perhaps it is because you are the one he wishes to commit himself to. The one he considers his mate, even if he doesn't think you can be his." He shrugged, as if to say that one could never be certain.

She frowned, her forehead creasing as she thought this over. Killian handed the poems back, watching as Emma stored them away with more care than she'd removed them. Her expression softened as she looked up at Killian again. "Thank you. I have a lot to think about."

"Certainly," he said with a nod. "You know, it occurs to me, Miss Nolan, that while I'm certainly open to giving you extra help and practice at interpreting poems, there's a much simpler solution to all of this."

"What?"

"Tell your admirer to stop sending them if you're uncomfortable. If he's any gentleman at all, he'll respect that. If not..." He leaned back in his chair again. "Well, then you've probably some cause to worry."

"How am I supposed to do that? There's no return address. They're all typed. I don't know who's sending them. Not for sure."

Killian looked up quickly at that, scanning her face for any sign that she suspected him. The puzzled look on her face yielded nothing helpful to that end, however, and he sighed. "Well, the campus paper is widely read. Chances are your admirer reads it too. Put a cryptically worded ad in the paper requesting that he back off."

"But what if he doesn't read the paper and doesn't see it?"

"Well...I don't know," he admitted sheepishly. "I suppose that's just a chance you'd have to take, if you're willing."

She stood, hefting her backpack up onto on shoulder. "Thanks," she said, extending her hand toward him. "I'll think about it."

Killian accepted it, jerking slightly at the small ping of static shock that erupted when their hands touched.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she smiled. "Hazard of winter, I guess."

"Yes," he murmured, "I suppose." He glanced down and saw that their hands were still clasped together. He released it quickly, clearing his throat with some embarrassment. "I'll see you in class momentarily."

"Sure." She waved at him, slipping out the door, and Killian expelled a sigh that was equal measures of relief and nervous anticipation. Would Emma place such an ad? Did he even want her to? It would provide him with an easy and graceful means to end everything. It was the answer to his prayers. Or would be, if he prayed. It was the safe and sane thing to do.

But Killian had never been one to pick the sane and safe option in his life.


	11. Chapter 11

Emma waited for Graham, twisting the green cloth napkin in her hands. They had become routine, their study dates. And while she had grown somewhat more comfortable being alone in his company, she was still uncertain about his intentions. He was much quieter than his vivacious twin, with a shy streak that Emma found oddly endearing, but in many ways these traits only confused and frustrated her. Every time she thought she had him figured out, Graham did or said something contradictory that muddled everything again. It made concentration during their study sessions rather difficult, and Emma couldn’t afford to waste valuable study time if she wanted to do well on her upcoming paper and the mid-term exam next month. It was time to take the bull by the horns and explain to Graham that she had found another tutor.

“Sorry I’m late,” Graham apologized, sliding into a chair next to her at the small table she’d selected at Breen’s. “Some guy was proposing to his girlfriend by the fountain outside the theater house on Springer. There was an orchestra and everything,” he rolled his eyes. “So of course everyone wanted to stop and look and shout congratulations from their car windows.”

“Did you?” Emma wanted to know (she was pretty sure she already knew the answer).

“Maybe,” he said with an embarrassed flush to his cheeks.

“That’s a yes,” she translated with an amused snort.

He shrugged. “It takes courage to propose in public. Of course I’m going to congratulate them. What if you put your feelings out there like that and she said no?”

“He must’ve been pretty she should wouldn’t, I guess,” Emma shrugged. “But even if she had, at least he’d know, instead of wondering forever."

“Yeah, I suppose.” Graham shook his head and flipped his textbook open. Following his lead, Emma reached for hers, wondering when to break the news to him. “But if it were me, I’d have done it differently. Expressed myself with less fanfare. Built up to it gradually.”

 _Gradually?_ Emma’s head jerked up, and she studied him through narrowed eyes. Her eyes fell on the opened book of poetry in front of him, suspicion taking root in a corner of her mind. _Like sending someone anonymous poems?_ she wondered.

Emma wrestled with this notion for a while, half-tempted to confront him and find out the truth. She wasn’t convinced it was the best course of action. She had no real proof. It was a wild guess, based  on a vague, passing comment. She didn’t want to embarrass either of them if she was wrong. Moreover, Emma didn’t know what she wanted to do if she were _right_. Graham was kind and sweet, and she _did_ like him a lot, but she didn’t know if she was ready for another relationship yet. Or if she even wanted one.  Most of all, she didn’t know whether she’d want to take the chance of dating her friend’s brother if she did find herself ready to date someone again. Breakups were messy, and Emma didn’t want to ruin her friendship with Ruby _or_ Graham if things didn’t work out between them.

“Uh, Graham,” she interrupted while he read another one of the assigned poems before they dissected it, “before we get too absorbed in what we’re doing, there’s something I want to talk about.”

“Sounds serious,” he mused. “Are we breaking up?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, I, um,” she floundered.

Chuckling, he elbowed her playfully in the ribs. “Relax, I’m teasing.” His expression became more serious, but his eyes still shone with kindness. “But I take it by your reaction that our study dates are coming to an end?”              

“Well—yeah,” she admitted, feeling awkward. “It’s just that…Professor Jones recommended one when I went to his office after that D on my essay exam, and I thought maybe I should give him a shot.”

“I see.” He closed his book with a thoughtful look, his expression unreadable. Emma simply felt relieved that he wasn’t outright insulted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help to you,” he apologized.

“Oh no, it’s not you,” Emma said quickly, “It’s just that I have a lot of trouble with this, and Professor Jones thought…” She swallowed, trying to think of how to best explain it. “He thought this Henry person might be a good fit for me. Bring in a new perspective, since he’s not in the classes.”

“I understand,” he said quietly, after contemplating that for a moment. “I hope your new tutor works out for you.” His eyes met with hers. There was something not quite regretful in them, something that Emma thought was bordering on hope. “Emma…” He licked his lips. “I—”

A deafening cheer erupted up by the bar, punctuated with several earsplitting whistles. Emma started in her chair. Curious, her head swiveled toward the commotion. A woman with white-blonde hair stood, blushing to the roots of her hair as she held out her hand. Something glinted, catching the light, and Emma realized that the woman was holding out her left hand, showing off an engagement ring. Behind her, a familiar figure with curling brown hair beamed as if he had just won the lottery. “Graham!” she hissed, leaning in toward him conspiratorially, “Is that the couple that got engaged by the fountain?”

“Actually,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “it is. Fancy that.”

“I know him!”

“You do?” He looked at her in confusion.

“Yeah. That’s Professor Jones’s brother.” She blushed, remembering the humiliating encounter that they had vowed to never acknowledge to each other again. “I ran into them at the drug store a while back.” Emma refrained from adding that she had initially believed they were gay lovers. It would only beg for explanation, and Emma was determined to take that particular story with her to the grave. “Liam, I think his name is.”

“Small world,” Graham marveled with a smile. “Or town, rather.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not that remarkable when you put it that way.”

They returned to studying, deciding that they might as well make the most of their evening together, seeing as they were already there, and Jefferson wouldn’t be by for a couple of hours to pick her up anyway. Emma glanced over her shoulder toward Liam and his fiancé from time to time, observing the adoring glances they cast at each other and their constant need to touch. It reminded her sharply of the way her parents had behaved with each other, and she couldn’t help but contrast it with the lackluster relationships she’d had. Something like wistful longing fluttered in her heart, and she thought of the poems she’d been receiving, glancing at Graham sidelong. Was that something she might be able to have one day?

Graham excused himself to use the restroom a while later, and Emma sat with her chin propped in her hands, wondering whether it would be weird to walk over and offer her congratulations to the happy couple. She barely knew Liam, and his brother was her professor.

As it turned out, Liam saved her the trouble.

“Hello,” he said, appearing next to her table as out of thin air, “Emma, is it?”

“Oh!” she said in surprise, started from her thoughts. “Um, hi. Yes. Liam, right?” He nodded. “So congratulations are in order, I guess?” She nodded toward his pretty fiancé, who held a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hands, chatting with one of the bartenders.

He looked inordinately pleased at her mention of it. “I just proposed tonight,” he confirmed.

“Congratulations,” she said sincerely.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “She’s made me the happiest man in the world.” He watched her, his eyes bright, looking as if he wanted to say something. “Listen,” he finally said, “the last time we ran into each other, I made some…assumptions.”

Emma blushed, wishing she could crawl into a hole and die. “Uh, that’s okay, you don’t— That is,” she fumbled to explain.

“No, I believe I do,” he insisted quietly. “Killian is the sort of man—”

“Liam?” a feminine voice called from behind him. He turned, his face breaking into a large smile as his fiancé approached them. “Killian called. He said Miri’s sleeping—and I quote—“like the angel she is,” but she’s running low on diapers and— Oh, hello,” she said with a wide smile, noticing Emma as she joined Liam, nestling against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m Elsa.”

“This is Emma,” Liam introduced her. “Emma, this is Elsa, my fiancé.”

“Hi,” she smiled. “Congratulations. Liam was just telling me about it.”

“Thank you.” She glanced from Emma to Liam with a puzzled expression. “So how do you two know each other?”

“Well, ah,” Liam began, “she’s in one of Killian’s classes.”

Elsa’s brow furrowed, as if she were trying to figure out how that connection explained Liam and Emma’s.

“I’m also one of Jefferson’s roommates,” she offered, remembering that Jefferson had an internship with Liam.

“Oh yes, Jefferson,” she grinned. “So you’re that Emma, huh?” Elsa studied her almost appraisingly, and Emma shifted uncomfortably in her chair as Liam gave his fiancé a sharp look. “Well, it was nice to meet you, but our cab should be here soon. Maybe we’ll see you around sometime?” she offered with a hopeful smile.

“Um, maybe,” she answered with a frown. She bade them goodnight as they retreated, pausing by the bar to pick up their belongings, and puzzled over some of Elsa’s comments. Graham returned soon after, with his cell phone in hand, apologizing that he’d been gone so long, but that he’d gotten a phone call from Granny, wanting to know if he could finish up a shift for one of her waitresses that had gone into labor.

“That’s okay,” Emma said, “No big deal. I’m meeting with Henry tomorrow anyway.”

“Let me drive you home,” he offered. “Jefferson won’t even be out of his night class for another hour.”

Emma hesitated. The thought of being alone in a car with Graham made her feel awkward, and it would be just as easy to stay at Breen's for another hour, studying. On the other hand, allowing Graham to drive her back home would afford her the opportunity to get to know him better. And wasn't that the point, if he was the one sending the poems to her? To see if she liked the man behind the poems, and not just the attention lavished on her by receiving them? “Okay,” she smiled. “I'll just text Jefferson to let him know I'm getting a ride home from you.”

“Great,” he smiled, gathering his books under one arm, “see you outside in a few.”

Watching his figure retreat toward the door, Emma tried to ignore the nervous butterflies in her stomach. _It’s just Graham_ , she told herself. _You’re just friends. There’s nothing to be scared of._

 _Yeah, but he wants to be more than friends,_ another voice whispered. _Aren’t the poems proof of that?_

“Stop it,” she growled to herself quietly as she gathered up her own books, shoving them into her backpack. “It’s just a ride. Quit psyching yourself out.”

Emma zipped her backpack shut and reached for her phone. Scrolling down her list of contacts quickly, she selected his number and typed a quick text to Jefferson that she’d found another ride instead. She shoved the phone in the hip pocket of her jeans and hurried out of the pub. Graham was waiting for her by the crosswalk, his hands in his jeans pockets.

“Ready?” he smiled.

“Yeah,” she said breathlessly, “I’m ready.”

Graham opened the passenger side door for her, helping her inside. “Thanks,” she said, right before he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side. So he opens car doors, she mused. That seemed fitting of a man who expressed his feelings for a woman by sending her poetry. Gentlemanly, even. Neal and Walsh had certainly never bothered to do anything of the sort. Emma decided she rather liked it. It was different. And considering how her past relationships had turned out, different was certainly a good thing.

“So,” Graham said, starting the car, “it’s just you and your mum when you’re home, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, as Graham backed his car out of the parking space. “My dad died a couple of years ago when I was a senior in high school. Had to watch me graduate from a live feed in his hospital room.” She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop the tears pricking at her eyes. “He died not long after.”

“I’m sorry,” Graham said, glancing at her with a frown after he pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road. “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay. I don’t exactly talk about it with many people.”

“Does Ruby know about your dad?”

“No.”

“And do you want me to tell her?” He glanced over at her again, his eyes brimming with compassion, before he turned his attention back to the road.

“No,” Emma decided, “not yet.”

“Then thank you for trusting me with it,” he rumbled in a low voice. “Even if I inadvertently manipulated you into it.”

“No,” she disagreed. “You didn’t. If I didn’t want to say, I wouldn’t have answered.”

“Direct,” he mused. “That’s good to know.”

Flashing him a quick smile, Emma relaxed her hands again. “You say that _now_ ,” she teased, “but just wait!”

He chuckled. “That so?”

“Absolutely. Dad always said I had all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “Maybe that’s why I don’t get this poetry stuff.”

“You mean it’s not your native language, so to speak?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, perhaps that’s so,” he agreed. “Some languages are harder for us to pick up than others. Particularly if they little resemble our mother tongue. But there’s still hope.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. And perhaps this Henry you spoke of will be just the translator you need to help you pick it up.”

Their conversation turned to lighter topics after that. Movies. Hobbies. Music. By the time Graham dropped her off at the townhouse, Emma felt like she’d cracked the surface of his mystery just a little bit. And she liked what she’d glimpsed so far, even if she wasn’t willing to commit to anything more than that.

“Bye,” she waved as he pulled out of the drive. Emma watched him leave and then turned to unlock the door with a sigh. Time to get back to studying, she supposed. Though truthfully, it was the last thing she felt like doing right now.

Closing the door behind her, Emma threw her things down on the couch and wandered into the kitchen. Maybe if she had a bite to eat, she might concentrate a little better, she told herself. I mean, who could think properly on an empty stomach? She wasn’t procrastinating or wasting time at all. She was giving her body energy and ensuring that her neurons were firing as efficiently as they should.

So rationalized Emma, as she pulled a package of cookies out of the cupboard and settled down on a stool at the kitchen bar. Taking a bite out of one of the cookies (double chocolate chip), she wriggled the phone out of her hip pocket and swiped the screen. A new message notification popped up, and Emma tapped on it, surprised that Jefferson had responded so quickly. He was almost impossible to distract while he was in work mode.

But it wasn’t Jefferson’s number that popped up with the reply to her message. It was Professor Jones’s. “Oh shit,” she breathed. _Why_ hadn’t she deleted it?

 _Good to know_ , his first text read, _if rather unnecessary._

_Might I presume this text was meant for one of your roommates?_

Emma typed out a hasty response, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. _Sorry. Meant for Jefferson,_ she apologized.

 _Good grief_ , she thought as she switched to Jefferson’s number and sent him a text explaining about her ride home with Graham (she triple checked the sender). Was she cursed to perpetually humiliate herself with Professor Jones, or something? Still…it could have (and had) been worse. A mistakenly sent text wasn’t the end of the world. Certainly not in comparison to the drug store incident. If they had survived that humiliation and moved past it, this should practically be nothing.

Her phone chimed, indicating a new text, and Emma tapped the notification.

_Have you given any more thought to the tutor I recommended?_

Disappointment sparked in her when she read the completely businesslike message, and then she felt like a fool. What had she been expecting? Sexting? God, how ridiculous. If Ruby ever caught wind of just how attracted she apparently was to Professor Jones (much less that she had his phone number), she would never hear the end of it.

 _I’m meeting with Henry tomorrow_ , Emma replied back.

_Excellent. I think you’ll find his methods quite creative._

_Just so long as they work._

_I have every faith in the lad._  

She should have ended the conversation there. Bid him a simple goodnight. Emma knew that instinctively. And yet, something inside of her, something reckless and impulsive, compelled her to stretch their conversation out further.

 _So I saw your brother tonight,_ she texted. _At Breen’s._

Three dots immediately appeared at the bottom of her screen, indicating that Killian was typing out a response. Emma watched with nervous anticipation, wondering just what in the hell she thought she was doing. This was stupid. So, so stupid. Stupid and inappropriate.

 _The arse didn’t mention anything about it._ Emma could practically feel the irritation emanating from the text on her screen. She grinned.

_He didn’t say anything I need to apologize for?_

Staring at the message in consternation, Emma wondered just what in the world he thought Liam might have said to embarrass him. Hadn’t they been embarrassed to the ultimate degree at the drugstore? _Duh, Emma,_ she realized. _He’s referencing that_.

_No. Liam actually tried to apologize to me, but then Elsa came over._

_Ah, so you’ve met her._

_Yeah._

Emma debated whether to send her next text. She didn’t know whether Liam had had a chance to tell his brother about the engagement yet, and she didn’t want to spoil anything for him if it was a surprise. Still, she reasoned, there was a good chance that he knew about his brother’s plans.

_He introduced her as his fiancé._

_Yes, the prat was oozing smugness when he called tonight._

_Don’t know why,_ came his next message. _I told him she’d say yes._

 _I should probably get back to studying_ , she retreated, uncertain what to say in response. _Goodnight._

_Let me know how it goes with Henry tomorrow._

_Sure. Good luck with the work. Bye._

_Goodbye Miss Nolan._

Emma threw her phone down on the counter, appalled and pleased at their conversation. Somehow, she thought it had been better for restoring her motivation and energy than the cookies she’d been munching on during their interlude. Brushing her fingers off, Emma slid off the stool and placed the cookies back in the cabinet. Gathering her phone and backpack, Emma walked back to her room, prepared to do war with her homework.

But rather than sit at her desk and study, Emma found herself lying back on her bed, daydreaming not about her Graham or her secret admirer, but about what it might like to be romanced by a certain poetry professor with blue eyes instead.


	12. Chapter 12

Emma met Henry Mills late Saturday morning at one of the libraries on campus. Jefferson drove her there, with the warning that he intended to be there all day, so he could finish some of his own work before his date that night, and Emma had packed accordingly. She was prepared to spend the rest of the day on campus, studying with him after her tutoring session with Henry. She had wasted entirely too much time last night fantasizing about Professor Jones, and today Emma was determined to push any thoughts of her troublingly hot professor out of her mind and get some actual work done. And if this Henry kid helped her to understand any of her poetry for class, so much the better; her mind wouldn’t be drawn to Professor Jones just by mere association while she tried to complete the work for her other classes.

They settled at a table in the East wing of the library’s second floor, near the bay windows, where Emma had agreed to meet Henry. Jefferson immediately set to work. Emma cocked her head to one side, watching Jefferson spread note cards with chemical equations scrawled on them over his half of the table. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Oh, just a little chemical equation Jeopardy,” he replied. “Helps me to remember the material better.” He flipped over a card, glancing up at her with a smile. “Hey, is that him?” He nodded toward a young, brown-haired figure standing some distance away, with a large, heavy looking backpack on his shoulders, peering around the library with a frown.

“I think so,” she answered, reaching for her backpack. “Bye,” she smiled. “See you later for our date,” she teased.  Jefferson offered her a cheeky wink in reply, and Emma grinned to herself as she walked over to meet her new tutor. Date indeed, she thought with self-deprecation. Although in retrospect, studying for hours in the quiet of the campus library was still a better time than anything more elaborate she had done on her actual dates with Neal.

What kind of date would her admirer take her on if they ever met? The thought crossed her mind before she could help it. _No, Emma, don’t go there right now_ , she told herself. _Class. Think about the poetry assigned for class, not those poems..._

Unfortunately, with the thought of poetry class came thoughts of a sexy, dark-haired professor with smoldering blue eyes, despite all the contrary promises she had made to herself.

“Hi, I’m Henry,” the boy said when he saw her approaching. “Are you Emma?

“Yes, I am,” she replied, grateful for the distraction that his presence provided.

“Great,” he said with a cheerful smile. “Let’s find someplace to sit and get started.”

“So, do you do a lot of tutoring?” she asked conversationally as they walked around the library in search of a more private place, where they could speak above a hushed whisper, to go over the material.

“It ebbs and flows,” he replied as they wound their way through rows of bookshelves. “Killian recommends me now and then to some of his students, but that can be irregular, and not all of them follow up.”

“So you’re on a first name basis with Professor Jones?”

“What?” he said blankly. “Oh, sorry. I forget sometimes that his students aren’t used to hearing his first name.”

“His students? You mean you’ve never been one of them, taking courses here at Farrenton?”

“No. Conflict of interest. His brother’s girlfriend was my teacher when we moved here a couple of years ago, and I became good friends with the whole family after she recommended me as a tutor to Killian.”

“Elsa?” she exclaimed. “No kidding?”

“Oh, you’ve met her?”

“Very briefly. She and Liam had just gotten engaged.”

“Wow,” he smiled, “that’s great! I’ll have to call and congratulate her. Anyway, between my connection to Elsa and the fact that I’m sort of working for Killian, it didn’t seem right to sign up for any of his courses if an alternative was available.” He spied a quiet nook devoid of other people and nodded at it. “Over there.”

Emma followed him, sitting down at a small table with two chairs for private study.

“So,” Henry said, peeling off his coat and placing it on the back of his chair, “where do you want to start?” He sat down and faced her with an expectant expression. “What’s giving you the most trouble?”

“Um, everything?” she said with some embarrassment. Emma explained the problems she had been having in class, relating Professor Jones’s assessment that the root of her problem was over-analyzing and not letting herself feel anything about the poetry. “So he gave me this book of Emily Dickinson poems,” she finished, “so that I couldn’t over-think anything.”

“And has it helped? Do you feel anything?”

“Confused, mostly,” she admitted. “Creeped out sometimes. She’s very fixated on death.”

 “Being creeped out is a feeling,” he pointed out. “It stems from fear and anxiety. And if you’re feeling that, then on some level, even if you aren’t able to verbalize it yet, you’re getting something from the poems. I think the key now is to go back over some of those poems and figure out _why_ you’re feeling that way. Once you can begin to identify that, you’ll be able to start compiling your own analyses and interpretation of the poems.”

“So feel first, then analyze?”

“Exactly. Let’s give it a try. We’ll call it Operation Amherst,” he told her with a confident smile.

“Operation what?” she blinked in confusion.

“Amherst. You know, Amherst, Massachusetts, where Emily Dickinson grew up. She’s sort of like your fairy godmother in all of this, right? Except instead of giving you a gown and letting you stay out late at the ball, you she’s helping you decode the world of poetry.”

“Figures that’s the kind of fairy godmother I’d get,” she muttered with a smile. “So I guess that makes me a princess?”

“Of course,” he agreed with another of his guileless smiles.

“Then who are you?”

“Me? I’m the author,” he answered after a moment of thought. “I’m helping you learn to write your own happy ending.”

“You know, Henry, Professor Jones was right about you.”

“Oh?” His brown eyes lit with curiosity. “How so?”

“You have a very unique way of looking at things. Operation Amherst it is.”

They worked together with an ease that was as comfortable as it was seamless. Professor Jones had been right; Henry Mills had a way about him. Emma couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but something about their personalities just seemed to click. Perhaps it was that organic, friendly rapport that enabled him to help her unlock the mysteries of the material that had so puzzled her in class; or maybe it was simply Henry’s fresh, creative approach to analyzing poems that did the trick. Whatever it was, Emma knew, after only a short period of working together, that Henry Mills was miracle she had been looking for to pass her poetry class.

 “Do you have anything else you want to go over before we end our session?” Henry asked after they finished poring over the class material for that week.

“Well...”

“That’s a yes,” he chuckled. “Let me see it.”

 “Okay, here’s the thing,” she began, “I’ve been getting these anonymous poems in the mail. Love letters, basically.”

“For real?” he beamed. “That’s so cool!”

“Actually, I thought it was creepy. I assumed it was my ex at first, but he swears it isn’t him, and he doesn’t seem the type anyway. Then I figured I had a stalker, but...”

“But what?”

“I talked to Professor Jones about it,” she confessed.  “Jefferson says he used to have a stalker here at Farrenton  and might be able to offer some advice. I let him look at some of the poems, and he analyzed them, and…and he seems to think my admirer has honest intentions. He suggested using the school paper to tell my admirer to knock it off, if it really bothered me, and see how he reacted from there.”

 “I’m sensing a ‘but,’ here.”

  _“But,”_ she agreed, “this person hasn’t done anything truly harmful or weird so far. Maybe Professor Jones is right.”

 “You don’t want to write the ad now.”

 “Actually," she admitted with a twinge of nervous anticipation, “I think I do. But I need your help to write it…”

* * *

 

Jefferson took Emma out for an early dinner before they returned to the townhouse so he could get ready for his date. It was the least that he could do for her, he said, after she had been such a good sport about studying in the library all day with him. “I know it’s not the most exciting way to spend a Saturday,” he apologized, opening the door to Breen’s, “but work before play and all of that.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” she assured him as they waited for a table to free up during the dinner rush. The waiting area was crowded with clusters of would be diners, most of them college students, chattering with the concentrated energy typical of youth on a Saturday. “You have a date. Why waste the extra time driving back and forth when you can just stay on campus?”

“Aww, honey,” he teased, slinging an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close. Emma was surprised at how solid his muscles felt beneath his shirt sleeves. “Letting me go out to see another woman after our date! You’re the best!”

“Well, we never promised to be exclusive,” she deadpanned back.

Jefferson chuckled, releasing her. “I could never compete with your true love for chocolate anyway.”

“Hot chocolate and cinnamon,” she corrected with a huff.

“Ah, yes. My profuse apologies.”

“Darn right.” She craned her neck toward the hostess’s station and then checked her watch. “I wonder how much longer the wait is. It’s been almost half an hour now, and I’m starved.”

“I’ll go check,” he offered, standing up. Jefferson threaded his way through the small crowd of people and Emma settled against the back of the bench and closed her eyes. Her spirits felt lighter than they had in days. After just a single tutoring session with Henry, Emma had hope for the future concerning her poetry grade. Her grades in the subject would probably never be brilliant, but at least she was not likely to fail the entire subject now. Emma felt relieved, as if one of the enormous weights she had been carrying around had been lifted off her shoulders.

As for the other, Henry had thankfully been able to help lift that burden, too. First thing Monday morning, Emma was going to call the campus newspaper’s office and place the ad that Henry had helped her write. With any luck, Professor Jones’s idea might just work.

“Miss Nolan?”

Emma started, her eyes flying open. Professor Jones stood in front of her, giving her an odd look. She flushed, embarrassed. “Hello,” she said.

“Are you all right?” He watched her with concern.

“I’m fine. Just tired.  Jefferson and I spent all day on campus studying.”

He blinked. “You’re, ah, here with Jefferson?” he asked slowly.

“Yeah, but it’s not like a date or anything,” she said hastily. Oh God, why was she telling him this? He couldn’t care less who she dated. He was going to think that she had the hots for him (never mind that she actually did). _He’s not available, Emma,_ she reminded herself firmly. “It’s, uh, just dinner between roommates. Anyway, he’s, um, checking on the wait for our table right now.” She cleared her throat. “So, uh, what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, why are you here?” She could have kicked herself. Could she sound any more stupid? “I mean, um, not that you shouldn’t be here to eat, everybody needs to eat, but—”

He chuckled. “I’m having dinner with Liam and Elsa to celebrate their engagement.” Emma followed his gaze as he glanced back toward the door, and she saw the happy couple enter, laughing and shaking the snow from their hair. “Liam!” he raised his voice over the din of the noisy crowd, raising one hand, “Over here!”

“Well, um, have a good dinner,” she told him as Liam and Elsa threaded their way through the crowd.  “Hopefully you don’t have to wait very long for a table.”

“We have a reservation, actually,” Liam said as he and Elsa joined them. “Good evening, Emma,” he told her with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, it’s a small college town, Liam,” Elsa chided. “It isn’t that much of a surprise to see a familiar face wherever we go.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he conceded, glancing at Killian, who seemed as flustered as Emma felt.

 “Hi,” she said awkwardly.

“Emma, would you like to join us for dinner?” Liam asked. “Avoid the wait?”

“Oh, I don’t know—” she began, as Killian coughed uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck. “Jefferson’s checking on our table now. I’m sure something will open up soon.”

“Oh, yes, do join us! I haven’t seen Jefferson in ages!”  Elsa chimed in with an excited gleam in her eyes.

“I don’t want to intrude,” she said uncomfortably, noting the glare Killian was giving his brother out of the corner of her eyes. Emma felt bad. She hadn’t meant to invite herself, she truly hadn’t.

Poor Professor Jones, she thought, looking at it from his point of view. Here he was, just wanting some private time with his family, and a student of his was trying to insert herself into the thick of it. Between this and the way that they kept running into each other, small college town or not, he was going to think that Emma was another stalker.

“You’re not intruding,” Elsa insisted. “Jefferson’s practically family to us at this point, anyway, and any friend of his is always welcome at our home with us.” is always welcome to join us.”

“What?” Jefferson’s voice interrupted as he joined Emma again. “Awesome! We’d love to join you!”

“Excuse me a minute,” she said diplomatically, grabbing Jefferson’s hand and pulling him farther away in the crowd.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he protested when she got him alone.

“The big idea is that he’s my professor, and you want to go have dinner with him? Don’t you think that’s going to look weird?”

Jefferson looked confused. “Why would it look weird?”

“Because I’m his student and he’s had issues with a student stalker before. I don’t want to get him in trouble if anyone from campus would see us hanging out with him. It’s inappropriate.” She paused. “Isn’t it? ”

“Search me,” he shrugged. “I just want to eat. Anyway, we’ll be in a group. Surely no one can interpret anything weird from that.”

“I guess...”

“Look,” he said gently, “if it’ll make you feel better, people will probably assume you’re my date, anyway. I’ll vouch for your innocent intentions if it ever came to that.”

“You would?”

“Absolutely,” he smiled. “Besides, we’re technically still on a study date, remember?”

“That’s true,” she answered with a smile of her own. She gave him a grateful hug. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Now let’s go eat. I’m starved, and I don’t want my stomach growling through my date later.”

"We're in," Jefferson announced when they returned to the others.

"Excellent," Liam said, “I'll tell the hostess we have two more for our table, and you can cancel your place in the queue, Jefferson."

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Emma asked Killian as Liam and Jefferson left to speak with the hostess. "I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

Professor Jones looked at her in surprise. "I'm delighted to have you accompany us for dinner, he assured her.

"So Emma," Elsa interposed smoothly in the silence that followed, "what's your field of study? Have you picked one yet?"

"Criminal Justice," she answered, acutely aware of Professor Jones's very blue eyes focused on her.

"Oh, and what do you plan to do with that? Become a lawyer?"

"No, a cop, actually. Like my dad."

"Oh, are you close with him then?"

"Uh, I was. He died a couple of years ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,” she sympathized . "My parents died when Anna and I were teenagers. It’s so hard."

“Anna is your sister?”

She nodded. "What about you? Any siblings?"

"There's August, I guess. We sort of unofficially adopted him into my family when I was growing up. He's kind of a vagabond these days, though. My dad's death kind of shook him up, so it's mostly me and my mom now." Mentioning her mother reminded Emma of something. "So you're a teacher?” she asked Elsa. “Henry says you were his teacher once.”

"Henry Mills?" Elsa looked positively delighted. “Oh yes, he was in my Advanced Placement History class! How is he these days? I haven’t seen him in quite some time.”

“He’s fine, I guess,” Emma shrugged. “I just met him today for my first tutoring session.”

“How did that go?” Professor Jones asked.

“I think it went well,” she admitted, thinking of the way that she and Henry had seemed to hit it off. “He has a very different way of looking at things. It helps.”

 “I’m glad,” he told her with a smile, as Liam and Jefferson returned and informed them that their table was ready. “I look forward to hearing more from you in class.”

They followed their waiter to the reserved space—a round, cloth-draped table located in a semi-secluded corner away from the bar. Two small candles burned in the center of the table, providing a cozy, intimate feel that made Emma feel as if she were intruding on private family time again. A minor amount of shuffling ensued before she could voice her concerns, and they arranged themselves around the table in such a way that Emma ended up sitting between Jefferson and Killian, with Elsa and Liam facing her across the table.

Being so close to her professor, with his cologne wafting into her nostrils, made Emma nervous. It felt incredibly right and oh so wrong all at the same time. She unrolled the cloth napkin that held her flatware together in a bundle, and placed it in her lap, avoiding Liam’s gaze across the table. She could feel the amusement oozing from his pores, and Emma gritted her teeth together lest she say something horribly inappropriate, rude, or ungracious. Or, knowing her luck, all of the above.

She became aware of Killian’s gaze after several moments, and chanced a look to her left. His eyes were focused downward, to his right, and Emma realized that she was pumping her right leg up and down at a furious pace, shaking the table ever so slightly. “Sorry,” she muttered, flushing. “Bad habit.”

“It’s okay, it doesn’t bother me,” Killian murmured quietly, while Liam chuckled and said, “It’s perfectly okay. If I had a nickel for every single time Killian scratched himself when he’s embarrassed or nervous, I would have a fortune!”

“Liam,” Killian growled, with a red face, scratching behind one ear, “you make me sound like a bloody ape!”

“See?” his brother chortled. “There he goes again!”

“Oh for heaven’s—” Killian sighed with a resigned look on his face. “Would anyone else like to order, or am I the only one who is actually hungry?”

 “Liam, be nice,” Elsa chided her fiancée with a grin. “And your brother is right. We shouldn’t linger over long before we order. Our babysitter isn’t cheap.”

“Don’t remind me,” Liam sighed.

“How is Miri?” Emma couldn’t help but ask. Elsa and Liam looked at her in surprise. “I met her when I ran into your brother at the bookstore one night,” she explained.

“So that’s where her new Belinda the Bunny book came from!” Elsa exclaimed. “I thought Liam bought that for her!”

“No,” her fiancée said, “I thought you did. But apparently Killian has been spoiling her again.”

“Come on, Liam,” Killian said, turning red in the face again. “Don’t act like you don’t spoil her even worse than I do.”

“That’s true,” Elsa laughed. “He has you there.”

Liam grunted and buried his face in his menu, refusing to comment.

Emma opened up her menu and started to peruse its contents. While some pubs she had been to offered a rather limited supper menu, Breen’s boasted an overwhelming variety of choices. Emma didn’t know what to choose, even after she automatically eliminated anything that did not fit within her personal financial budget. Did she want beef or seafood? Pork or pasta? Burger or sandwich melt?

“What are you getting?” she muttered to Jefferson. “I can’t decide.”

“Fish and chips,” he said instantly. “The fish and chips here is to die for. I hardly order anything else off the supper menu.”

“If you like seafood, the Fisherman’s pie is excellent,” Liam offered.

“I do,” she answered, “and that’s one of the menu items I’m considering.”

 “Well, you can’t possibly be more indecisive than my Elsa, here,” he grinned, poking his fiancée playfully. “She changes her mind at least ten times before we order.”

“Oh, you!” she huffed with a smile. “That just goes to show what you know! I’ve already decided what I want.”

 “Uh huh,” Liam said, his voice heavy with skepticism, and his expression mouth twitching with amusement. “And what’s that?”

“Steak,” she said with conviction. “I’ve been dying for a nice, rare steak since I was pregnant with Miri, and now that I’m not, I’m finally going to indulge myself and enjoy every minute of it!”

Killian chuckled from where he sat. “And why hasn’t Liam ever cooked you steak since you had Miri?”

“That’s an excellent question. Thank you, Killian,” Elsa said, eyeing Liam with a playful glare. “Why haven’t you made me any steak?”

Listening with half an ear as Liam scrambled to respond, Emma peered at her menu again. Bangers and mash sounded good. If she remembered right, that was sausages and mashed potatoes. Hard to go wrong with something like that, she reasoned. But then again, it was hard to go wrong with a big, juicy burger, either.

“Well, what are _you_ ordering?” she heard Elsa say accusingly.

Emma missed Liam’s reply as Killian leaned toward her, and the scent of his cologne filled her nostrils again, distracting her. “Have you decided?” he asked quietly.

“Um, well...”

“I see,” he smiled. “Well, I favor the Steak and Guinness pie, usually, but most anything off of their menu will be excellent.”

 “Oh, don’t tell me that,” she groaned. “That’s no help at all!”

“My apologies,” he said, offering her a brilliant grin that made her heart stutter.

The waiter returned with their drink orders a few minutes later, and Emma studied her menu a moment more before she shut it. She still wasn’t entirely certain what she would get, but she figured that something would come to her when it was her turn to place her order.

“I will have the shepherd’s pie,” Liam told the waiter. “Elsa?”

“The grilled salmon, please” she told the waiter.

“What happened to the steak?” Jefferson laughed.

“Thanks to Killian,” Liam said with a glare at his younger brother, “apparently I am making it for her this weekend.”

Killian shot his brother a smug smile over the top of his menu. Emma got the sense that he had exacted some form of revenge—though for what perceived wrong, she had no idea.

“And for you?” the waiter asked Jefferson.

“Fish and chips, if you please.” He handed the waiter his menu.

“And you, miss?”

 “I’ll have the Steak and Guinness pie,” she found herself saying without much forethought.

 “I’ll have the same,” Killian said, handing his menu to the waiter.

Emma felt Liam’s gaze boring into her again, and she took a sip of her iced tea, avoiding his gaze. Why was he staring at her so much? Did he suspect that she had an attraction to his brother? She was beginning to suspect that he did. Liam seemed to enjoy putting her in a position to subtly tease her about it.

Or, she reasoned to herself, perhaps she was simply paranoid, given the embarrassing circumstances under which she and Liam had first met each other.

 “...although since Victor and Ruby started seeing each other,” Jefferson was saying, “it’s usually just Emma and me these days.”

Emma snorted. “Please. You’re at the library all the time.”

“Hey, I still make time for us, don’t I?” Jefferson argued. “I haven’t missed a movie night yet—unlike Victor.”

“Isn’t he bringing Ruby to the next one?” she wondered.

“Probably,” Jefferson sighed. “I suppose it’s no longer roommate movie night anymore.”

Emma almost pointed out that he could technically bring Mindy to their movie nights any time he wanted to, since Victor had decided to include Ruby (and likely Graham by extension now), but she thought better of that. She got the feeling that Mindy did not particularly like her, though she could not really fathom why, and the feeling was more or less mutual now. Emma was not going to waste her time trying to be friendly with someone who  Emma was not going to waste her time trying to be friendly with someone who would likely ignore all of her efforts anyway. Being civil to her was quite enough effort as it was, and Emma only did that for Jefferson’s sake. Though given the way that her roommates had made plain to her their dislike of Neal when she had dated him, it would have served him right if just didn’t bother.

Still, the fact was that they had ultimately been right about Neal (much to Emma’s irritation and chagrin), whereas Emma simply had not spent enough time around Mindy to get a real grasp of her true character. Not that she particularly cared to. What she had seen of it so far, with the irrational jealousy and territorial-ness, was more than enough. Emma had more than enough of her own problems to contend with right now—raising her poetry grade being paramount in importance. Everything else, even this whole secret admirer thing, would simply have to take a backseat to that for a while.

“So have you two thought about a date for the wedding yet?” Jefferson asked after a brief lull in the conversation.

“Nothing specific yet,” Elsa admitted. “Being engaged is still very new to us, and I rather like the idea of taking the time to enjoy our engagement a bit more, rather than rushing to plan and pull off a wedding by, say, this summer.”

“We have all the time in the world, darling,” Liam said, giving his fiancé an adoring smile that made Emma’s heart ache with jealousy and longing. It reminded her of the way her parents had once looked at each other. Would her admirer, if she ever met him and discovered his identity, look at her in such an utterly besotted way? Would she want him to? What if her admirer was someone that she was not attracted to, especially in all of the ways that counted, like kindness and understanding and humor? And why in the world was she even worrying about any of this when she had resolved to focus on her classes for the time being? She did not even know what her admirer’s response to the ad she was putting into the paper would be. Surely that would tell her something about his intentions and character.

“...and of course, when we do hold the wedding, we would love for you and Emma to attend,” Elsa was saying to Jefferson.

Emma inhaled some of the water that she had been sipping. Her and Jefferson? Like a couple? Surely not, she thought wildly. She had to have misunderstood the context of the conversation, being so distracted with her own thoughts.

 “Are you all right?” Killian asked with concern etched on his face as Jefferson patted Emma on the back firmly, in an effort to assuage her coughing.

Jefferson’s touch burned against her back through the sweater that she wore. What she was contemplating was utterly unthinkable. All the stress from her poor poetry grade and the breakup with Neal and her secret admirer was simply getting to her, making her paranoid.

"I'm fine,” she lied. Surely she had misunderstood Elsa’s meaning. "I just swallowed wrong, that's all."

She and Jefferson weren't a couple. Elsa had to know that, given the close working relationship and friendship that Jefferson had with Liam. Then why had Elsa implied such? Was Emma just imagining things, becoming paranoid as a result of the anonymous poems she had been receiving? It was ridiculous to think an admirer a potential lover lurked around every metaphorical corner, and yet...

 _It makes sense,_ a small voice nagged in the back of her mind. _You and Jefferson have always had chemistry with each other, you've just ignored it. Denied it. But now others see it too. Does Jefferson? Is he the one sending the poems, because he's afraid of messing up your roommate relationship?_

Jefferson did enjoy poetry, she remembered, and he had a knack for it that she lacked. Maybe the poems were his way of expressing his feelings without risking their relationship as roommates. Hadn’t Professor Jones said that her admirer might feel that he could not, for some reason, be with her, as he longed to do? And wasn’t Jefferson the one whom had sent her to Professor Jones for reassurance regarding her admirer being a potential stalker?

 _But he's seeing Mindy right now_ , the logical part of her mind argued back. They had a date tonight. So Elsa had to be wrong. She was simply misreading the situation, that was all.

Pleasantries resumed, and as much as Emma tried to focus on them, a suspicion had been planted that she just couldn’t discount. The more that she thought about it, the more that it made sense. Jefferson certainly fit the profile of her admirer better than Graham did. Jefferson’s probable motivations made a lot more sense when considering the bigger picture.

Certainly the idea of Graham as her secret admirer was a lot easier to accept than Jefferson. Graham didn’t live with her. If a relationship fizzled out with Graham, the most awkwardness she might have to deal with would be in her budding friendship with Ruby, and Emma didn’t honestly think that Ruby seemed like the type to get too offended on her brother’s behalf if a relationship soured.  Jefferson, being her roommate, however, could not be avoided in the event that their relationship failed.

Emma absolutely did not want to screw up her current living arrangements, no matter how much chemistry she had with her older roommate. Chemistry did not equal a healthy or even happy relationship. It was no guarantee on the life or stability of a relationship. Lots of couples had chemistry, but it didn’t mean that they also had that certain spark, that indefinable something that enabled their love to transcend obstacles instead of descending into misery.

 _But you don’t know that you would be miserable_ , that small voice whispered, instilling doubts and weakening her resolve as she thought of all the poems that had been sent to her, and the beautiful languages and imagery within. Surely someone who could write those things, see straight into her soul like that, had the potential create such a spark with her. _Give him a chance,_ it enticed. _Give your feelings a chance…_

Resolving not to make any impulsive and permanent decisions yet, Emma reminded herself to wait and see how her admirer responded to the ad that she was going to place in the paper. After all, the nature of his response would tell her much about the potential of any relationship going forward, whether temporary or permanent. She wasn’t bound in any way to keep receiving the poems at all, much less respond to them or pursue a relationship.

The rest of their meal proceeded rather uneventfully, and Emma gradually relaxed enough that she was able to really taste the food that she had ordered. Killian’s recommendation had not been amiss; the Steak and Guinness pie was delicious. Her father would have enjoyed it very much, she thought with a wistful sadness, staring at her empty plate after the bill had been paid.

“Are you all right?” Killian asked her quietly, while Jefferson was away using the restroom.

Emma wasn’t in the least surprised by the question. She hadn’t been able to help noticing the concerned looks he had been giving her throughout supper. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” he continued. He scooted his chair a little closer to hers, so they could hear each other clearly, and she inhaled a fresh waft of his cologne, which strangely made her feel better. “Would you like to talk about whatever is bothering you?”

Across the table, Liam and Elsa were too preoccupied with quietly adoring each other to notice. Emma was glad, not only because she didn’t want her hushed conversation with Killian misinterpreted, but because it truly warmed her heart to see two people so happy being together, bittersweet though it was for her, now that she was unable to witness it any longer with her own parents.

“Just thinking about my dad again,” she said truthfully. “He would have loved a place like this. He always promised he’d take me to a bar himself for my first legal drink.”

Killian raised his eyebrow at her phraseology, and Emma grinned. “Let’s just say he caught August and me raiding the liquor cabinet once, when he was came home early from his shift one evening.” “

“What happened?”

“We were grounded, of course. But the real punishment came later that night, when Mom came home from her knitting group and found out what happened. You’ve never heard or seen such devastated disappointment on anyone’s face in your life,” Emma shook her head. “And then she brought out the projector and made us watch this presentation on alcohol abuse that she shows every year to her kids in class, and we each had to write a report about what we learned on the dangers of underage drinking.”

“So your mother’s a teacher, then?”

She nodded. “Anyway, now my dad will never get to bring me someplace like this and have that drink with me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “How could we have known? The tumor came out of nowhere. It was just suddenly there, and before we knew it, he was gone.” She sighed heavily. “Life sucks sometimes.”

“Aye,” he agreed. His eyes took on a sadness of their own, and Emma knew he must be thinking of Milah. “Sometimes it does.” He smiled at her crookedly, his eyes shining with a gentle empathy. “I suppose that’s why we have to embrace the good parts when they come to us.”

The expression in his eyes changed, and Emma’s heart began to beat faster. _What does he mean?_ she wondered. _Is he talking about the poems? Does he know? Is he in on it with Jefferson?_

That train of thought was mercifully interrupted when her roommate returned from the bathroom. “Hey,” he said, “we’d better get going so I can take you home before I have to leave again.”

“Sure,” she replied. “Thanks again for allowing me to join you,” she said to Liam as she stood up to leave.

“It was our pleasure,” he replied with a genuine smile.

“See you around,” Elsa said with a smile.

 “Goodbye, Miss Nolan,” Killian responded with a thoughtful look. “I hope the rest of your evening is more peaceful.”

“What did he mean by that?” Jefferson wanted to know as they left the restaurant and crossed the parking lot to his car. "What happened?”

“Oh, nothing,” she evaded, not wanting to talk about her dad anymore, and unable to understand why she always shared so much about him with her professor, of all people, “I was just getting stressed about my grades again.”

“I thought you were feeling better about that since your tutoring session with Henry today,” he frowned, unlocking the car. He climbed in, and Emma followed suit.

“I was,” she agreed, fastening her seatbelt, as he started the car and then fastened his own. “I guess I’m just tired after studying all day, and I’m starting to have doubts again.”

“Well, he’s right,” Jefferson said decisively, turning out of Breens’s parking lot. “You need a night off to relax. Let’s go home and watch horrible, stupid movies and make fun of them until our sides hurt.”

“What about your date with Mindy?”

“My what?” He blinked. “I don’t have a date with Mindy.”

 “Of course you do,” she argued, “unless you’re trying to tell me you lured me into staying on campus all day with you under false pretenses.”

Jefferson glanced over at her and grinned. “No, I’m afraid not.” Anyway, I said I had a date,” he corrected. “I never said it was with Mindy. That’s over. We didn’t suit.”

“Oh,” Emma said, thrown off kilter by his matter of fact answers. “So...who is the new lady?”

 “Why do you ask?” he said, giving her an odd look.

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “Look,” he said after an awkward silence. “It’s just a date. A friend fixed us up. She won’t be upset if I cancel, and neither will I. It’s nothing serious for either of us, I don’t think.  For Mindy, things were serious. She figured out about my money somehow, I think, and started pressing me to get more committed, so I broke it off.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said sincerely. Emma felt sorry for him. It wasn’t the first time a girl had tried to push Jefferson into a commitment after learning about his family wealth. No wonder he buried himself in his studies and hardly dated.

“Thanks,” he said with a grim expression. “So considering Mindy’s, er, expectations, I think it’s better if I don’t bring girls back to the townhouse anymore, unless I’m serious about them.”

“Like me?” she said, half teasing in an attempt to lighten the mood, and half probing for an answer that might confirm her suspicions about the anonymous poems.

“Exactly,” he winked over at her. “So what do you say? Impromptu roommate movie night for the lovelorn and brokenhearted?”

“Sure,” she answered. “If you’re certain you won’t regret cancelling that date.”

“Positive.”

“Then I get first pick!” she crowed.

“I should have seen that one coming,” he sighed with affectionate tolerance. “All right, you pick the first movie, I’ll make the popcorn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those of you who have been asking if Emma will learn who her admirer is, this chapter laid the last groundwork necessary for that. It will happen soon, I promise. Be patient with me just a wee bit longer, please.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks, as always, go to my beta reader, Raams, for help with this chapter! I hope you guys enjoy it!

Although more egotistical professors might have taken offense that a mere lad such as Henry Mills was able to get through to struggling students while an educated professional could not, Killian simply took it in stride. It was more important to him that the mysteries of poetry and literature had been opened to another mind, leaving a new world of imagination and feeling to explore, rather than taking credit for it. Beauty was not a thing to be locked away or hoarded until someone condescended to share it on their own strict terms. That Henry Mills had been able to reach Emma Nolan and help her to decode poetry, therefore, only pleased Killian.

There wasn’t a marked change in her class behavior—though Killian hadn’t really expected one. Learning to comprehend poetry came at a trickle for most people, their ability to analyze it building little by little. There were occasional students with a raw, instinctual grasp of it, but they were very few, and never seemed interested in pursuing their latent talent beyond the four walls of a classroom. Emma Nolan, who didn’t quite fit into either of these categories, remained as reticent to participate with the class as ever, but Killian sensed a change in her nonetheless. Perhaps he was seeing what he wanted to see, based on Emma’s admission that her tutoring session with Henry had been helpful. If anything, she seemed distant and preoccupied this morning, but Killian had no solid, rational basis to account for difference he felt in Emma. He simply knew it with the same certainty that he knew Emma Nolan shared a connection of the soul with him.

“All right,” Killian told his students at the close of class, “now that we’ve had our first essay quiz, and you’ve gotten a taste of what I look for when I grade, it’s time to start thinking about writing our first paper.” The class issued a collective groan, and Killian grinned. “But in order to do so,” he continued, “we’ll need to have a good grasp of T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” so I suggest reading ahead a bit in your material and letting yourself become familiar with it. Do not worry about analyzing it yet—simply let your mind absorb the words and begin to mull over them while we continue our regular schedule of coursework. In my experience, it will make the analysis and writing of your paper much easier when it’s time to sit down and write it.” He smiled. “Of course, if you enjoy a challenge, feel free to ignore my advice.” His students laughed softly, and Killian dismissed them, gathering his sheaf of notes and other materials.

“Professor Jones?” a familiar voice interrupted politely while he returned the papers to his briefcase.

“Hmm?” he said distractedly, his mind already working on the fragment idea of another poem, “Oh, Miss Nolan,” he greeted when he looked up. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah.” She shifted from one foot to the other as students shuffled out of class around her. “I just wanted to say thanks again for putting me in touch with Henry. We’re meeting again tonight to go over more material, see if he can catch me up to where we’re at in class now.”

“No need,” he assured her with sincerity. “I’m glad it seems to be working out for you.”

She twirled a button on the blue sweater she wore, and Killian couldn’t help but notice that the shade brought out some honey-colored highlights in her wealth of golden hair that he’d never noticed before. He admired them covertly, shutting his briefcase with a snap. “Is there anything else?” he asked after a brief stretch of silence. Emma peered around the classroom with a frown, and Killian’s eyes swept the room as well, finding it empty. He furrowed his brow. “Would you like to discuss something in my office?” he offered.

“No, Victor’s waiting for me,” she shook her head. “I just wanted to tell you that I took your advice about putting an ad in the school newspaper.”

Killian stared at her for a moment. “I see,” he said, clearing his throat when he finally found his voice again.

Emma frowned. “What’s wrong? Do you think I shouldn’t have done it, now?”

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not for me to decide. It’s just that…” He trailed off. What could he say to her without giving himself away? “Well, I suppose I’m surprised and a little flattered,” he recovered. “Most people don’t tend to take the advice they ask people for.” Which was true enough, he thought as he paused briefly. “Let me know if you need any more help with the matter,” he found himself saying, as if he had no knowledge of the situation. “And Emma? Whatever it is you decide about your admirer, I hope it works out for you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled.

Killian watched her leave the classroom to join her roommate, who was hovering near the doorway. Emma and Victor fell into step together, joined by Ruby Lucas, and Killian turned away, picking up his briefcase. Holding it with one hand, he cleaned the board, his thoughts preoccupied with something other than writing. So Emma had left him a message in the paper. The idea hadn’t seemed so bad in the abstract, but now that it had become a concrete thing, he felt a flutter of panic in his belly. Regardless of her response, he couldn’t let this progress any further than it already had. What had he been thinking, sending Emma the poems he’d written? If he must purge his attraction to Emma through his writing, why hadn’t he simply thrown them in a drawer to collect dust, like most of the rest of his work? This was mad! _He_ was mad!

Flicking off the lights, Killian left the classroom and walked across campus to one of the coffee houses, like a moth drawn to a flame. No matter how his mind tried to justify it, his heart knew the real reason he was going to peruse the campus newspaper, and it certainly wasn’t to have something to entertain himself with while he sipped a cup of abysmal tea.

Twenty minutes later, clutching a large paper cup of tea and juggling his briefcase, Killian settled into a secluded corner of the coffee house. Reaching for a copy of the school paper, Killian hesitated with trembling fingers. He could leave it closed, halt this entire in its tracks right now. It was the objectively sensible thing to do. He was risking his job, playing a dangerous game.

Killlian opened the paper.

Leafing through it, he located the appropriate section and scanned through many of the messages with disinterest. He was about to lay the paper down, thinking that the editorial staff had not had the room to include it in this particular edition, when he spotted it—a single, simple poem of only three stanzas. Henry had helped Emma write it, he knew, scanning the poem; there was a familiarity of phrasing that gave it away. And yet, he realized, as he re-read the poem with more careful consideration, the depth of feeling in it was all Emma:

_Dreams are near impossible_

_Unless we aim to try_

_To soothe that internal restlessness_

_So set sail, O Captain, and I shall fly._

_Though we cannot move together—_

_You sailing in the waters, and I soaring in the sky—_

_Let us chase the sunset in concert_

_Though it evades us, by and by._

_But let us not despair,_

_Or let fall from our lips that frustrated sigh,_

_We may catch each other in the sunset still—_

_If from our dreams we do not shy._

 

_Chase the sunset in concert?_ Killian quietly rolled the words over his tongue, slumping against the back of the booth. It was a tempting lure—one he could not dare to indulge. And yet, Emma’s hope that they might one day catch each other in the sunset, that fate might one day be kind enough to smile upon them despite their circumstances, was enough to fan the embers of Killian’s faith. Fate had a reason for bringing Emma into his life. Killian believed it was because they were soulmates. But he was in no position to offer her any concrete, physical relationship. Perhaps fate had another purpose in mind, he brooded. Maybe they were meant to connect in another way, offering encouragement and companionship through an exchange of poems, thereby touching each other’s lives in only the most peripheral of ways.

It wasn’t what Killian desired, not by far. It was vastly cruel, in fact, that when Fate finally saw fit to bring a soulmate into his life, Killian could not embrace her and share his life with her in the ways he wanted. But neither could Killian turn down the small way that Fate saw fit to offer him for having a corner in Emma’s life, could he?

Folding the paper up with slow, careful precision, Killian sipped absently at his tea. The warm liquid slid down his throat, warming his belly while he contemplated what kind of reply he should send back to Emma in response. He didn’t want to openly encourage her and lead her on in such a way that she began to seek a physical, face-to-face relationship. But then, that was the rub, wasn’t it? Despite all of his insistence within his poems that they couldn’t be together, hadn’t set up that expectation nonetheless in pursuing her so ardently with them? Was it possible to simply love and admire and support Emma in all that she pursued from a distance? More to the point, was it _fair_ to Emma to do so?

Liam was right. This was all a very bad idea that could cost him his job if he didn’t get it out of his system and put an end to it. Somehow, no matter how much he wished to keep that small corner in Emma’s life through the poems he was sending to her, he had to let it go.

Let _her_ go.

* * *

Killian spent the next week and a half agonizing over his response to Emma. Everything he wrote seemed simply awful to his eyes, and sounded even worse to his ears. He experimented with rhythm and syntax over his breakfast, or while he wore out the belt on his gym’s treadmills every evening, but nothing satisfied him. Even taking a hot bath couldn’t seem to clear his head enough to produce anything that pleased him. Rather than having a case of writer’s block, Killian had something he felt was a thousand times worse—writer’s constipation. He couldn’t for the life of him find the right words to release the ideas and emotions he knew he wanted to convey in his last poem to Emma. They were trapped in his head, locked away behind an invisible barrier, through which he could visualize them, almost hear them, and he couldn’t pull them out.

It drove him mad, making Killian moody and more inclined to impatience. And rather than taking it out on his students, he withdrew and let them lead the discussions in his class for a change, while he listened and tried to immerse himself in the immortal words of poets far greater than him, with the hopes that it might kindle inspiration.

He even resorted to toting volumes of Yeats and Dickinson to his office to pore over during his spare time between classes, in the dim and desperate hope that they might lubricate the lock on the prison door that stood between his ideas and his pen, but to no avail.

“Killian, what in the world is the matter with you?” Elsa finally inquired with a note of exasperation while he was visiting one Saturday afternoon. He’d hoped a nice visit with his niece might cheer him enough to pull him out of his funk and enable him to write the final poem to Emma, but it seemed that even Miri’s happy coos and sweet snuggles did little to soothe the restless crabbiness that had taken hold of him.

“It’s been a long week,” he shrugged.

“No, it’s more than that. Your face has resembled a thundercloud ever since you came over today,” she insisted. “Now what’s bothering you? Is it something to do with that coworker Liam said you were attracted to?”

He grunted noncommittally, and Elsa correctly interpreted it as a yes.

“Killian,” she said reasonably, “if it’s affecting you this much, perhaps you ought to consider asking her out for a date and giving things a chance.”

“Can’t,” he muttered, pressing a kiss against Miri’s wealth of blonde curls as she aimed the full force of her toothless smile straight at him.

“Oh, now really,” Elsa sighed. “Perhaps it’s frowned upon, that’s true, but you’re both adults, aren’t you? It’s not as if you two would be the first office romance that’s ever happened. Just file the requisite paperwork with your boss to cover both of you if things don’t work out, and give this thing an honest chance.” She peered over her shoulder at Liam, who was busy poring over a lab report that he’d brought home from work. “Right, honey?”

“Of course,” he answered absently, pushing the wire-rimmed reading glasses he wore back into their proper position. His gaze never deviated from the report for a single second, and Killian hid a smile. “You’re absolutely right, dear.”

“See?” Elsa said, significantly, even though she knew as well as Killian did that Liam hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation in the slightest. “Anyway, you can’t go on like this forever. It’s not healthy. Either you need to take a chance and see where things lead, or you need to find a way to put it behind you for good.”

“I know,” Killian responded with a quiet reluctance that verged on despair, “I know. I just can’t seem to find the right words.”

“Then that’s your problem right there,” Elsa said with conviction, “stop trying to find the right words, and just show her how you feel.”

Elsa’s advice was eerily similar to that which he’d given to Emma for poetry class. _Show her how I feel?_ Killian blinked several times as his mind conjured an image of himself, cradling Emma’s face with one hand as he backed her against a wall, kissing her, exploring her, until they were both weak from lack of air--

“It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Elsa was insisting as Killian struggled to dispel the image from his mind, “just something to break the ice, like bringing in her favorite treat from the bakery; it will make it a little easier to ask her out, and she’ll know you’ve been thinking of her. The worst she can do is say no.”  

He slanted a look at Elsa. “Thanks,” he said sardonically.

“Oh, you know what I meant!”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ve done too much thinking already,” she argued. “You need to go for it and ask this woman out.”

“All right, Elsa,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “I hear you. And I’ll take your words to heart.”

“Good,” she said primly, “because I love you, Killian, and I would really hate to have to resort to drastic measures.”

Killian shuddered to think of what Elsa’s “drastic measures” might consist of.

* * *

Rather than visit the gym again in what had become a nightly ritual to purge Emma from his thoughts, Killian decided to take a different approach. He dressed in his warmest clothes and went for a long walk instead. Perhaps the change of scenery and pace would finally enable him to formulate the overwhelming feelings and thoughts into tangible words, setting things to right again, so he could cut his emotional ties to Emma once and for all.  

He found himself walking toward the university after a while, with no cognitive memory of choosing that particular path. Exasperated with himself, he debated whether to turn back or press onward. Eventually, he chose the latter. His office keys were on the key ring in his coat pocket; maybe he would sit in his office and try to write that goodbye to Emma. The more professional setting might put the necessary steel in his backbone to end the flirtation, regardless of whether he could adequately express the devastation in his heart at saying goodbye. It needed to be written and sent, regardless of his ability to convey himself the way he wanted. The hope that he could make her understand had never been more than wishful thinking anyway. He could not very well explain who he was; therefore neither could he disclose the real reason for ceasing to send more poems. Emma would form her own conclusions, accurate or not, whether he explained himself or didn’t. And there was nothing Killian could do about it.

“Professor Jones!”

Emma’s familiar voice Killian halted in his tracks. A chill settled in his spine. This was going to be even harder than he thought, if fate was going to use such dirty tactics to dissolve his resolution before it hardly had a moment to strengthen. Closing his eyes briefly, Killian took a fortifying breath and turned toward her. “Miss Nolan. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Emma apologized, looking unsure of herself. “I saw you walk by while I was on my way to the library to study before meeting Henry for another session, and I thought… Well, I guess I wanted to pick your brain a bit.”

“About something for class?” he inquired hopefully.

“Ah, it’s about…the poems.”

The halting way in which she’d said it left little room to delude himself that she meant any of the poems assigned for class reading. “I see. Well, Miss Nolan, I’m on my way to my office to take care of some paperwork. Perhaps we can discuss them as we go?” Best to keep things as public as possible, he reminded himself. For both their sakes. They had gotten far too personal on too many occasions as it was. He’d been careless. That had to stop. He might not be able to avoid Emma entirely, if she sought him out during office hours, but Killian could do his best to minimize any other occasions as much as possible.

“So what’s on your mind?” he asked, after she fell into step behind him and they began walking across the campus. He tried very hard not to notice the heavy book bag she had slung over her shoulders. He knew it was considered old-fashioned these days, but the instinct to offer to carry her books was powerful, and Killian had a difficult time suppressing it. _Inappropriate,_ he reminded himself. _Very inappropriate_.

“Remember when I told you about the, um, response I put in the school paper?”

“Aye.” He nodded.

“Well, it’s just that… Valentine’s Day is on Monday…”

It was? Killian blinked. He knew he had been rather preoccupied, but letting a major holiday nearly pass him by unnoticed? It wasn’t as if he didn’t see the day’s date every single day in his planner, either. He _should_ have made the connection. But his brain, filled to the brim with other concerns, just…hadn’t. Killian felt ashamed. He should have replied to her notice in the newspaper long before now. He’d let this entire situation get out of hand.

“…and it’s not like I was expecting him to get me anything for it,” Emma was saying, “I don’t even really know this person yet. I just thought I would have heard from him by now. Especially after I left that ad. But I haven’t.” Her expression clouded over. “Do you think he changed his mind? Or maybe he didn’t see it, if he doesn’t read the school paper much?”

“It’s hard to say,” he found himself saying. “There are a lot of possibilities. Perhaps something else is occupying his attention right now. Schoolwork. Writer’s block. Anxiety at the thought of disappointing you or letting you down…”

“I never thought of those things,” she admitted, looking thoughtful.

“Of course,” Killian felt obligated to add, feeling the weight of his own selfish behavior in instigating all of this and putting Emma in a position to hope for something that couldn’t ever develop into a proper relationship, “it’s also possible he’s simply a selfish arse who stopped writing and doesn’t deserve you or your attention.”

Emma’s expression sobered. “Possibly. I’d have been more inclined to think so a few weeks ago than I am now. I guess I’m just not ready to give up hope quite yet. Is that stupid?”

And here it was, the perfect opportunity to kindly and subtly discourage her from pursuing any of this further. But Killian made the colossal mistake of peering over at Emma. And when her green eyes met his gaze, he simply couldn’t do it.

“No,” he told her, thinking of the strong theme of hope within the poem she’d penned with Henry’s help, “our feelings are never stupid. They’re what make us human. And the ability to hope, even when things look bleakest, is perhaps the most humanizing of them all. It’s what enables us to keep going—surviving—even when the future looks cold and empty, and we fear we might never find warmth or happiness again. Hope is a good thing, Emma. Even if sometimes it’s misplaced. It gives us a future.”

She smiled. Her eyes filled with understanding and pity. Killian realized that she was probably thinking of his losing Milah, and the affect that must have had on his own ability to hope, many years ago.

“Thank you, Professor. If I don’t hear from him in another week or two, I suppose…” She trailed off. “Anyway, I’d better get to the library and hit those books before Henry gets here,” she excused herself. “Good luck with that paperwork,” she added by way of farewell.

Killian bobbed his head and mumbled a response. He turned back toward the building that housed his office. He felt deflated. How in the world was he supposed to write that blasted farewell poem now? Perhaps he should write a letter? He pondered the notion as he climbed the steps leading to the front doors, fishing for his keys to the building. No, he finally decided as he unlocked it and stepped inside, he would be expected to be more direct in a letter than he would a poem. And Killian couldn’t be direct about his reasons for not sending anymore poems.

Reaching his office a few minutes later, he flicked on the dim light and sat down. Perhaps a bit of free writing might help ease his tension and allow just the right words to flow from his pen. Opening one of his desk drawers, he retrieved a legal pad and rolled the drawer shut. He selected a ballpoint pen from the cup sitting on a corner of his desk, uncapped it, and started to write.

It was pure stream of consciousness at first. All of his frustrations and longings came pouring out from his pen, almost like it was magic. But somewhere along the way, his words transformed themselves. Structure appeared, little by little, in a rough fashion as his thoughts began to break down into stanzas. Symbols appeared, and syntax changed. And about halfway through the poem he had intended to write, another entirely different one took shape. The mood shifted by increments--from despair to desperate hope to confidence that Fate might take a hand and see them through their impossible circumstances.

And when he had finally written himself out, Killian threw down the pen on his desk and stared at the poem with a sense of confusion and horror. He couldn’t send this to Emma!

_Either you need to take a chance and see where things lead, or you need to find a way to put it behind you for good_ , Elsa’s words echoed through his head.

He ripped the pages from the legal pad in one swift motion. Better to just be rid of any potential temptation. If Elsa knew the situation for what it really was, her words of advice would have been very different, he reminded himself.

Emma’s face flashed through his mind next—disappointed, even hurt that she’d had no contact from her admirer of late, but still hopeful…

The image weakened Killian’s resolve, and he paused in the act of crumpling the papers. Surely it could not hurt to sent just one more set of poems for Valentine’s Day and cheer her a bit before he tapered them off. Killian needed to give Emma her best chance to move on and find someone more suited to the same path and circumstances in life. It was the right thing to do, the honorable course of action. He had to let the idea of Emma Nolan go.

But he also needed to help Emma let the idea of _him_ go. At some point, she might want to meet him, find out who he was, if for no other reason than to satisfy her curiosity. And Killian simply could not let that come to pass.

As the poems became more inconsistent in their delivery, Emma would surely become less invested, making it easier on them both when he quit sending them altogether. It wasn’t uncommon for love to bloom brilliant, but wither quickly.

For the first time he wondered whether that was the fate to which he and Milah would have fallen prey. They’d been very young, their relationship and subsequent engagement rather a whirlwind. If she’d lived, would they have eventually broken up, as many young loves were wont to do, or stayed the course with each other and been happy?

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Killian retrieved his cell phone. Most florists would be swamped with orders this close to Valentine’s Day, and any possibility of a complicated custom order was therefore out of the question. But Killian did know one person who might be able to help him with what he had in mind. She had retired years ago, leaving the business to her granddaughter, but she still liked to take on special projects from time to time. This, he supposed, was certainly a special project if there ever was one.

He dialed the number.

“Hello?” a youthful, feminine voice answered breathlessly after the third ring. “Briar Rose Floral Arrangements.”

“Aurora,” Killian greeted her. “I’d ask how business is, but considering what Monday is…”

“It’s stressful this time of year,” she agreed with a laugh, “but it keeps my books in the black. So what can I do for you? Are you looking for part time work again?”

“No,” he said, “at least not until the summer. My schedule’s too busy this semester. I was actually calling to speak with your grandmother about getting her help with something. Is she there today?”

“Are you kidding?” Aurora laughed again. “She wouldn’t miss this chaos for the world. Hang on, I’ll pass the phone over. I have an arrangement of roses and tulips to finish anyway. It was nice hearing from you again, Killian!”

There was a crackle, some brief murmuring, and then a wry voice said into the phone, “Hello, Killian.”

“Hello, Rose—”

 “So I’m to understand there’s a special lady you want to impress?” she interrupted, before he could finish with pleasantries.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come now. Aurora tells me you aren’t looking for any work, but you’re calling for _me_ , specifically, less than two days before Valentine’s Day. I may be getting on in years, but I’m not senile. I can still put two and two together. Now tell me about this special project you have in mind.”

Rose listened for several minutes while Killian described his idea. “But do you have the kinds of flowers in stock that I’d need to match the poem?” he finished, feeling a lot less certain of himself now that he’d described his ideas out loud than when he’d conceived of it in his head. Killian didn’t usually let share his work, raw and unfinished, with just anyone. He preferred to hold back and refine it, running it through several drafts, before he felt comfortable letting anyone else set eyes on it.

“Not here in the store,” she mused thoughtfully, “and certainly not on such short notice—as you well know! However…I do have much of what we’ll need for the arrangement in my greenhouse at home.” She paused, then said reproachfully, “Meet me there tomorrow morning—early—if you want to pull this all together in time. Bring coffee.”

She hung up without bothering to pass the phone back to her granddaughter, and Killian stared down at his phone, optimism warring with doubt. Was he doing the right thing, continuing these poems to Emma, even in the short term?

Killian had the strange feeling that, for better or worse, he was soon to find out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As mentioned on my Tumblr, there are actually two variants of this chapter. Rest assured, everything is the same except for a couple of paragraphs in the last scene. I liked each version so much, I decided to post them both in separate places. The softer, more romantic version is here, and the more edgy version can be accessed on another site, through a link on my Tumblr.
> 
> Many thanks go out to my beta, Raams, for the edits she suggested in this chapter! She catches things a lot of subtle things I sometimes overlook.
> 
> Enjoy!

Monday came far too quickly for Emma’s liking. She awoke to the sound of her cell phone’s familiar ringtone, groaning. Reaching out with uncoordinated limbs, Emma managed to knock it off her nightstand and grumbled some more. Forced out of her warm cocoon, she retrieved it and answered just before it went to voice mail. “Hello?” she answered groggily.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Emma!” her mother chirped cheerfully.

“Hi, Mom,” she replied, trying to inject some cheerfulness into her own voice.

Emma knew she wasn’t fooling her mother, but it was their ritual, their attempt to carry on with some pretense of normalcy in spite of the absence they both felt so keenly. Holidays were still a matter of going through the motions for Emma and her mother, of struggling to draw closer and function together in their shared grief. Emma just wanted to wake up again someday and _not_ feel the rush of disappointment and misery that followed the realization that she wouldn’t hear her father’s voice over the phone, or receive another one of his corny valentines with the terrible poetry she’d always pretended to hate, but secretly cherished.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she finished.

“I, um, got your valentine,” her mother’s voice broke, after a short silence.

Emma felt embarrassed at the raw pain she heard in her mother’s voice. She’d known, while creating the nonsensical poem with the bag of chalky little candy hearts that it would make her mother sad, but she’d hoped that the surprise might have sparked a happiness that overpowered it, however briefly. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she began somberly, “I only meant to—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she sniffed. “It’s wonderful. I never thought I’d get another one after your father…” She trailed off, still hesitant to voice the word, even two years after his passing. “For a few minutes, it was like having him back,” she continued, her voice cheerful, but thick with grief.

“Mom…”

“But then I realized he’s never really been gone. He’s always been with me, Emma, because part of him still lives on in you. And the poem… it felt like a gift from both of you.”

“It is Mom,” she agreed softly.

“Thank you,” she sniffed again.

“You’re welcome. I know it’s not the same as the ones he made, but look on the bright side: the poetry’s just as terrible.”

Their shared laughter was a balm to Emma’s sagging spirits—and, she hoped, to her mother’s.

“Did you get the package I sent?”

“On Saturday,” Emma assured her. “The boys were very excited about the cookies. I managed to stow some away for myself before they inhaled them all. Thank you.”

“Of course! I couldn’t let your first Valentine’s Day away from home be cookie-less.”

Like those first years after her dad had died, Emma remembered. Neither of them had been keen on baking heart-shaped cookies, or any reminders of love, when the biggest love of both their lives had been so cruelly taken from them.

“Listen, I’d better get ready for class,” Emma said with genuine regret. As much as her mother had often aggravated her in the past, due to their differences, perhaps now that was changing just a little. She hesitated, and then said, “Thanks again for making the cookies, Mom.”

Her mother instinctively understood what Emma could not put into words. “Me, too, Emma. We love you.”

 _We_ , Emma thought as she bid her mother farewell and ended the call. Swallowing with difficulty around the lump in her throat, she started to ready herself both physically and emotionally for the difficult day that lay ahead. Her mother was right. Their father would never really leave them, even in death. And if he couldn’t be here to send his love personally, he would always send it through Emma’s mother. She’d simply been in too much pain to realize it before.

Crying softly into the water of her shower for the first time since the morning of her father’s funeral, Emma thoroughly forgot all about any other meaning or possibilities that the day might hold for her—even that of finally hearing from her admirer again. She already had all the love she needed.

* * *

Her morning passed in a blur. Her professors, it seemed, were blessedly unaffected by the holiday,  and barely referenced it at all—for which Emma, still feeling somewhat emotional since her mother’s phone call earlier that morning, was grateful. Even poetry class, the one place she’d been expecting to be bombarded with it, relegated the reading of famous romantic poetry to the last fifteen minutes of class, once they’d completed their discussion of their regular coursework.

She felt immensely relieved. It was difficult not to imagine wickedly inappropriate things of Professor Jones when he was reading Shakespeare and Byron and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, as if he’d just come alive. Emma listened with an idle ear, since the poems weren’t pertinent to her grade in the course, and she studied Professor Jones instead. Something was different about him, and it took her several minutes to work out what it was: The invisible cobwebs of grief that always seemed to fetter his spirits were gone, replaced by a spark of hope and zest of spirits that she hadn’t realized had been lacking before. He seemed at peace with himself and the lot he’d been dealt.

On the other hand, maybe in her struggle to keep her thoughts chaste, she was simply projecting a bit of her own emotional breakthrough onto him.

A sudden, unexpected silence captured Emma’s wandering attention, and she looked up, afraid that she’d missed something important, but it was only Professor Jones pausing to drink some water and reshuffle his papers to find the next poem.

He began to recite again, in that same quiet but clear voice, and Emma’s thoughts drifted toward the forbidden again. Darn it, was she really this weak-willed? Emma refused to be one of his simpering admirers.

She straightened in her chair, determined to put her mind back on the poems (even if they didn’t affect her grade), where it belonged. The movement seemed to catch his eye, for the next thing Emma knew, his intense blue gaze was locked with hers. The moment was brief—Emma knew it by instinct. But it was a moment packed with eternity, and it left her strangely breathless and only vaguely aware when he finished reading the poem.

“That was beautiful,” Merida said after a moment’s silence.  “Coleridge, was it?”

Professor Jones nodded. “From his poem, “The Presence of Love.” We’ll be studying Coleridge in a couple of weeks, and I thought it might be useful to give you a foretaste of him to mull over before we tackle “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” or “Kubla Khan.” He glanced at his watch. “It seems we’ve gone just a couple of minutes over today. I apologize. I know many of you have other classes to attend. Dismissed.”

Emma gathered her things slowly, still somewhat dazed from the encounter with Professor Jones a few moments before. She watched him covertly, considering him again. She’d been absolutely right. Something had changed him. She’d felt it in his gaze.

“Emma, are you coming?” Victor’s voice interrupted her musings. “You have some time before your next class, don’t you?”

“Um,” she said, refocusing her thoughts, “yeah, I do. My next class isn’t for an hour. Why?”

“Coffee,” he said succinctly. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Sorry, I kind of spaced out during the end of class,” she apologized. “I got a phone call from my mom this morning.”

“Ah.” His expression saddened. Victor and Jefferson were well aware by now how difficult holidays were for Emma and her mom. “Well, that’s all the more reason to come with us,” he said with a crooked smile. “Ruby’s over there with Graham, trying to persuade Mulan and Merida to come, too. I think she’s hoping they might get together with a little more nudging.”

“All right,” she decided, sparing a final sympathetic glance for Professor Jones, “I’m coming. I could use a shot or two of caffeine to get through the day.”

* * *

Emma arrived back at the townhouse that evening, drained despite all of the caffeine she’d imbibed between her classes. Her afternoon classes had been brutal, and Emma was very thankful she’d stayed up the extra hour last night to finish her reading for them; she’d been called on multiple times in both classes for her analysis and opinions of the materials. The only thing she wanted now, therefore, was to collapse into bed and sleep. Since that was hardly an option, however, she’d settle for a long, hot shower, some of her mother’s cookies, and a cup of cocoa with cinnamon sprinkled in it.

“Your admirer struck again,” Jefferson said without preamble as Emma shut the front door. “I moved everything into the kitchen and put it on the table.”

“What’re you doing here?” she blurted out thoughtlessly. “Sorry. I mean what are you doing here so early?” she amended.

He made a face. “The library tends to be a popular place to, er, meet up on Valentine’s Day, and I prefer to do my studies without the gasping and poorly stifled moans wherever I move to.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “I was just getting ready to fix some dinner, if you want in on it. Stir fry.”

Emma considered it. She _was_ hungry, and it would save her the hassle of cooking something for herself, but stir fry didn’t sound particularly good with cocoa. She could have her favorite beverage later with the cookies for dessert, she supposed. “All right, yeah,” she decided, “thanks. Need any help?”

“Nah, I got it.” He sauntered into the kitchen, and Emma followed, curious about the mail he’d mentioned.

A tall, translucent vase of champagne hue stood on the table. Sprays of tiny blue flowers were arranged in it, amid fragrant white blossoms and coral roses. It was an unusual combination, especially for Valentine’s Day, but attractive nonetheless; the colors reminded Emma of summers spent on the beach with her parents. Of course, her admirer couldn’t possibly have known it would have that particular effect, but she felt pleased by it just the same. It was creative and thoughtful… and tailored just for her. There was nothing standard or ready-made about it.

Spying the card tucked into the flowers, Emma opened the little envelope as Jefferson began puttering around the kitchen, prepping ingredients for their dinner.

_If emotion is measured_

_By the petal and the vine,_

_Let thy gardenias keep my secret_

_But whisper of my affection;_

_Thy hydrangeas offer gratitude_

_For abundance of understanding;_

_And the coral of the rose assure_

_Ardent desire remains—even in the harshest dawn._

Emma had no idea how long she simply stood in the kitchen, clutching the poem after she finished reading it. She felt dazed, as if she’d spent an afternoon lounging in some exotic garden, instead of attending classes and worrying about her grades. How did only a few lines of writing manage to make her forget everything else for a short time? How did such beauty get distilled into so few words, yet leave her as breathless as if she’d just finished running a race?

 “Well?” Jefferson’s voice interrupted her musings, “What does this one say?”

Emma peered over at her roommate. He was busily chopping vegetables for the stir fry, his back facing her; she couldn’t read his expression. Emma cleared her throat and read the short little poem aloud, marveling to herself once again.

“Clever,” Jefferson commented, as soon as she’d finished.

“Huh?”

“The poem,” he said, adding the veggies in careful handfuls to the hot wok. “It matches the flowers.”

Emma blinked, glancing up at the flowers, then at the poem. She felt a little foolish that she hadn’t worked that out herself, even if she didn’t recognize two of the three flowers in the bouquet. She skimmed the poem again. Weren’t gardenias white, though?

“More or less,” Jefferson agreed, when she voiced this thought out loud. “I’m not exactly a botanist. But those blue ones are definitely hydrangeas. My mom used to grow several varieties of them in her garden.”

“So,” she ventured, feeling awkward and suspicious, “if the flowers match the poem, then the flowers themselves are a message of some kind?”

Jefferson glanced over his shoulder briefly. “Seems like,” he agreed, after a charged silence in which he stirred the food.

“I see,” she replied calmly, despite the warning bells that were going off in her head. “Then the poem translates the flowers’ meaning.”

He grunted vaguely in response, stirring together ingredients for a teriyaki sauce while Emma puzzled out the meaning of the poem. _Let thy gardenias keep my secret…_ His identity? It was the only thing which made sense to Emma, but then why were they “whispering” his affection? What was it Professor Jones had said in class? Pick out what seem to be the key words in the poem and use them to help you understand its meaning? If the two lines were connected in meaning, then the gardenias stood for… secret affection?

 _Thy hydrangeas offer gratitude/For abundance of understanding…_ Gratitude for understanding what? Her patience in all this? Of his secrecy in hiding his identity? Emma couldn’t help but feel as if something else were being alluded to in those lines—as if they foreshadowed some event yet to come.

At least the meaning of the rose was easier to discern: _And the coral of the rose assure/Ardent desire remains—even in the harshest dawn_.

Passion and desire… Those were things she could comprehend. The fact that they were mentioned in tandem with this “harshest dawn,” only solidified her sense that there was a mournful air to the poem—as if it were saying goodbye—was something she chose to ignore for the time being. They _were_ lovely flowers, she decided, taking a leaf out of her mother’s book and choosing to place the brightest possible face on things, and the poem _was_ beautiful, whatever it might portend for the future.

That was enough for now.

* * *

Emma met with Professor Jones the following week. Though Henry had been excited to hear about the reply to the ad he’d helped her write, his excitement soon shifted to a businesslike concern once Emma mentioned Professor Jones’s hint that they might want to begin working on their midterm papers. Armed with more than half a dozen resources Henry had helped her dig up, and the best of intentions, Emma had waded into the work with determination; it didn’t take long to realize, however, that as good as some of Henry’s recommended resources were, Emma wasn’t certain how to cite some of them properly, and the examples she looked up in the manual of style Professor Jones had recommended only confused her further.

And thus she found herself, once again, in Professor Jones’s cramped office, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne and stammering her questions about the pertinent citations like an idiot.

“Sorry,” she apologized with a lame smile, as she finished, “no caffeine yet. I hope that made sense.”

His answering smile alleviated any lingering worries that she hadn’t made a lick of sense. “Just enough,” he replied, his blue eyes alight with amusement and compassion. “Not to worry. I had one of those mornings last week. As to your questions, I have a printout with examples that I was going to photocopy and pass out in the next class, but I can make you a copy now, if it will help…” He reached for his briefcase and settled it into his lap.

“Damn,” he said a few moments later, after examining its contents. He glanced up at her with a somewhat embarrassed expression. “Ah, pardon me.”

Emma laughed. “It’s okay. I’m hardly going to be the one to police anyone’s language.”

He grinned. “Yes, I seem to remember you using a rather colorfully descriptive phrase yourself when I gave Jefferson a ride home, that day…” He snapped his briefcase shut, and Emma felt herself turn red. “The packet I need isn’t in there. I must have left it in Lakeland’s car this morning when we carpooled.” He paused. “When’s your next class?”

“Not for another half an hour.”

“Excellent. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll just run down to the faculty parking lot and get that packet, so I can make a copy for you.”

She watched him go, quite unable to help noticing the firm curve of his posterior as he retreated. This whole thing was so fucking unfair. She was bad at poetry and had a hard time concentrating as it was, but she had to go and get the best looking professor in the whole goddammed world on top of it— _and_ she was expected to _learn_ something by the end of the year under these circumstances? Clearly, the universe had stacked the odds against her.

Shifting restlessly in her chair, Emma peered around the office, desperate for a distraction from her troubles.

Two large volumes sitting on his desk caught her eye, and she tilted her head to one side, trying to read the spines better. _The Selected Works of W.B. Yeats. The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson_.

Dickinson? Emma thought, remembering the volume she’d tucked away in her backpack that morning, with the intent of returning it to him. He was a big fan, to have multiple volumes, wasn’t he?

Then again, she mused, unzipping her bag, he was a literature professor, and maybe that wasn’t out of character. Or maybe he’d simply borrowed one from the library. Either way, she didn’t need to monopolize his copy anymore. She’d bought her own book of Dickinson’s poetry (on an impulse she still didn’t understand) from the student bookstore when she’d gone in there last week to browse between classes. Hers was only a selected works, and certainly nothing in comparison to the completed works he’d lent her, but it would do well enough while she worked with Henry to raise her poetry grade.

Rising to her feet, Emma stepped toward the desk and placed it on top of the other poetry volumes. There! Now she wouldn’t have to worry about forgetting to return it to him when he came back to his office, smelling so good and leading her thoughts wickedly astray. 

Turning back toward her chair, the sleeve of Emma’s jacket caught on one of the desk drawers, pulling it open.

Cursing to herself, Emma carefully extricated her sleeve and bent to close the drawer. _Let thy gardenias keep my secret--_ The familiar snatch of words caught her eyes as her fingers grasped the handle, and she froze, dumbfounded. She reached into the drawer, pulling out the yellow legal pad they were scribbled upon. What was her poem doing in his desk drawer? For _her_ poem it unmistakably was, with its breathtaking imagery intact, despite the numerous lines that had been crossed out, or the syntax that had apparently been altered between drafts.

Maybe it was some weird coincidence. But how? How could her poem just end up in his desk drawer like this? It couldn’t be a coincidence. What on earth were the odds that her poem would end up in his desk drawer, full of scribbled out margin notes, and musings on just the right word choice to convey the meaning he wanted? Was he helping her admirer somehow? Her mind flashed to Jefferson. Perhaps Professor Jones had been advising Jefferson on the best way to win over Emma? Was that why he’d been so confident in his reassurances that her admirer wished her no harm? Was it because he knew damned well who it was the entire time?

Emma wished all of this were so. Desperately. But deep inside, she felt it—she _knew_. Professor Jones was her so-called admirer. He had been the one sending her all the poems. And he’d sent the flowers for Valentine’s Day, too.

But to what purpose?

“What the fuck?” She breathed. “What. The. Fuck!”

Her mind flashed to the intimate conversation they’d shared on the porch steps of her townhouse, then to all of the little stolen gazes and the silent, shared moments of understanding, and her heart gave a strange quiver of happiness.

 _But,_ her brain whispered cynically, _what if it had all been planned?_

Her stomach started to churn, and Emma closed her eyes. The thought that he’d planned this out and taken advantage of her, especially in the aftermath of her breakup with Neal, nauseated her. Professor Jones had always seemed so compassionate. Caring. Like he genuinely wanted his students to succeed on their own merits—not like someone who would take advantage of a struggling, desperate student.

Struggling and desperate…

The kernel of an idea sprouted, and once the idea had planted itself, Emma couldn’t get it out of her mind. Had this all been a grotesque farce in order to bring up her grade? Throw a little mystery and romance her way through some poems in order to get her interested and change her mind, and then what?  She’d be so grateful that she wouldn’t care she’d been played, and she’d sleep with him?

The thought of what he’d done, how he’d tricked her, utterly infuriated Emma. Did he do this with all of his struggling students, stringing them along, condescending to send them anonymous poetry? Had that been how he’d ended up with a stalker? Had some disaffected student discovered he was the sender, and decided to wreak her revenge? Had his victim taken the poems as encouragement and convinced herself he felt real affection for her, and then found herself unable to let go when she discovered he’d been toying with her?

The thought of what he’d done to that poor girl, and now to Emma, tricking them both, infuriated her.

The amount of rage and humiliation she felt could not be quantified in any coherent thoughts. Emma simply stared at the legal pad in her hands, seething. How dare he!

_How **dare** he! _

She was going to give him a piece of her mind, thin office walls be damned! Let the whole fucking world find out what kind of sick, twisted piece of shit he was! One way or another, she was going to make certain Professor Jones never pulled any kind of shady shit like this again!

The office door opened, and Emma’s head jerked up. Time slowed to a crawl as Killian entered, a stack of photocopied papers in his hands, kicking the office door shut behind him with a click. Blood pounding in her ears, Emma fixed him with an icy expression, her rage overtaking her. Killian looked confused for a moment, his forehead puckering in concern, and then his eyes flicked toward the legal pad she held in her hands.

She saw with razor sharp precision the moment comprehension dawned in his eyes. The papers he’d been holding fell to his feet. His cheeks reddened, and then his ears; they blazed so bright that Emma half expected them to catch fire altogether. His eyes dropped to the floor, his expression full of shame. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, as if searching for something to say, and then Emma remembered Liam teasing his brother about it—how he always did that when he was embarrassed.

“Emma, uh…”

 _No,_ she seethed, he doesn’t get to feel awkward about this. He wasn’t the one who had been manipulated and utterly humiliated.

“Shut up,” she growled. And she found herself raising her hand with the vague, foolish intent of slapping him, but somewhere along the way, her confused emotions eclipsed her anger and her wires got crossed. Suddenly, she was grabbing him by the collar and pulling him toward her, crashing her lips against his, communicating her anger and confusion to him in the only way she knew how. But instead of quenching her rage, she found herself feeding it instead; and between one moment and the next, it wasn’t anger anymore, but a wildfire of passion blazing between them--heady and out of control, and as intoxicating as her first orgasm.

Buttons loosened. Shirts came untucked. The hard warmth of his chest pressed against hers. Hands nested inside her coat, and then lifted her up against the edge of his desk, pressing the pulsating hardness of himself against the keening hollow of her own body.  Eager caresses teased just under the curve of her breast, and then slid beneath the underwire of her bra, rubbing her nipples with just the right amount of friction, until she half-sobbed and half-choked the resultant moan into his mouth.

“That was…” Emma hated the croak of her voice as she came up for much needed air. She felt lightheaded, off balance. Breathless. And good. Oh so good…

“A one-time thing.”

She gaped at him in disbelief, still reeling from the kiss. Her thoughts were jumbled, only half-coherent, but some instinct she hadn’t even known was buried inside of her bubbled to the surface in protest. “But—”

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, before she could even get the right words out of her mouth. “You need to leave, Emma.”

“What?” she hissed, “You can’t just—”

“Go,” he repeated firmly, avoiding her gaze again. “Please,” he begged.

“Killian—” The rest of her words stuck in her throat after she whispered the name. She hadn’t meant to call him that, and yet the name had fallen from her lips as smoothly and naturally as if she’d been using it for years.

“Emma, my next appointment will be arriving at any moment,” he said softly. “The last thing either of us need right now is to be caught looking as we do, or having the sort of awkward conversation my explanation would require. Go.” He paused for a moment, and then begged, “ _Please_.”

“All right,” she agreed woodenly, smoothing down her hair while Killian fixed his disheveled clothes. She gathered her things together, nodding vaguely in response to his promises that he’d get in touch with her later to “sort things out.”

“Sure,” she bobbed her head, hefting her backpack onto one shoulder.

Killian frowned at her simple response, as if he suspected she did not believe him, but nothing could be further from the truth. Emma didn’t need reassurances that he’d contact her. She knew it in her bones that he would. Perhaps not tonight, or even tomorrow, but he would. For the kiss they had shared had taught her two incontrovertible things: The first was that Killian Jones had genuine feelings for her, whatever his initial intentions in sending the poems had been. And as to the second… Emma was certain that no matter how hard Killian tried to fight it now, they were going to end up in each other’s arms. Good, bad, or disastrous, it was one of those fated, inevitable things. The universe seemed to want them together. So, one way or another, they would be.

She had to trust in that.


End file.
